Choices
				   by Michael Noakes

Part Two: Dilemma


     Slow, reluctant rise out of comforting darkness.  Unwilling
awakening to dull throbbing pain lurking within his skull.  Queasy,
empty feeling in the stomach.  General sensation of body weariness
and irritating tingly sensitivity of the skin.  Foul, pasty taste to the
mouth, tongue feeling unpleasantly thick.  Tentative opening of one
eye -- then immediate squeezing shut, despite the relative darkness
of the room.
     Ranma groaned.  He felt terrible.  He wanted to sleep some
more.  He turned over onto one side.
     "Oh no you don't!"  A voice interrupted his suffering. 
"Time to get up!"  A woman.  Cheerful sounding, but with an
undeniable authoritative edge.  There was the sound of curtains
being drawn, and annoying, unwanted light flooded the room. 
"You've slept long enough!"
     "No -- no," he moaned pathetically.  "I don't wanna get up,
Mom!"  Mom.  Mom?  "MOM!" he exclaimed, bolting into a sitting
position, sheets flying from the sudden movement.  Interesting
lights flared before his eyes.  Fear clutched him, almost strong
enough to overcome the redoubled pounding of his skull.  Ranma
clutched his head in pain while peering, terrified, through a mess of
bangs at the tall woman.  She finished drawing back the last curtain
and turned around.  Nodoka  smiled.
     "Good morning, Ranko!" she said.  "Sorry, dear, your mom
is not here.  Just me."
     Ranma blinked up confusedly at his mother, and then,
slowly, looked down at himself.  For perhaps the first time, the
sight of breasts on his chest -- still bound in Akane's bikini --
comforted him.  With a sigh of relief he relaxed.  "Oh.  Ah, hi . . .
Auntie Saotome," he stammered.
     His mother kneeled next to him.  "How are you feeling?"
she asked softly, smoothing back the redhead's hair.  Ranma
realized that his hair was unbound and flowing freely, and
somewhat messily, down his back.  He blew a few wayward strands
out of his face, which his mom secured behind the ears.
     "Ah . . . fi -- fine, I guess," he answered.  Then seeing the
knowing look in his mother's eyes, he grinned weakly.  "Terrible."
     She nodded as she stood.  "I'll get you something to drink
which should help to soothe your stomach, Ranko.  I will be back in
a moment."  She stepped away, but paused a moment before
leaving the room.  "You know, Ranko, it really is not ladylike to
drink so much," she said disapprovingly, then turned and left the
room.
     "Yeah, no kidding," he muttered as she slid the door shut
behind her.  Ranma slowly lowered himself onto his futon, throwing
one arm across his eyes to block out the light.  What is she doing
here, he wondered.  Then a moment later: what am _I_ doing here? 
Last he could remember was . . . the pool?  Diving.  Drinking. 
Playful splashing and swimming and relaxed fun.
     No.
     There was . . . something else.  A girl?  A name hovered at
the edge of his mind.  A bathroom?  A snapshot image flashed
through his head: counter, rug, curtains, shower, toilet.  Was it at
Kiyoshi's place?  He could not remember.  Strange.  Normally I'm
really good with names and places and stuff, he thought.  It's not
like me to forget. . . .
     Forget. . . .He was forgetting something.  He knew it. 
Something important.  His brow furrowed in intense concentration
as he forced sluggish thoughts backwards: before swimming, he had
stepped into the house, looking for some hot water, and he had
bumped into. . .
     Akane.
     Ranma jerked suddenly upright once again, eyes widening in
horror.  "Oh no," he whispered, suddenly oblivious to the renewed
pounding in his head.  An angry loud voice echoed through his
mind:
     "You pervert!
     "What kind of _guy_ hangs around other guys wearing a
_girl's_ bathing suit?
     "Some man, some fiance you are!"
     He winced at the memory -- at his retaliation:
     "You wanted to come here, alone, right?  Well, fine.  Then
you can leave here, alone, too!  You didn't want me hangin' around
you at the party?  Fine!  Then why should I hang around you
_after_ the party?
     "After all, being alone suits you, ne?  S'not like anyone
_here_ cares if you stay or go.  _I_ certainly don't!"
     And then, worst of all:
     "Let go."  Her demand.
     "No."  His refusal.
     And he had pressed down on her wrist.  He had inflicted
pain upon her.
     Ranma buried his face in his hands.  Akane's voice,
dangerously soft, returned to him, accompanied this time with the
image of her face, red and furious and strangely sad:  "I hate you,"
she said, and soon after: "Our engagement is over, Ranma."  The
words had been spoken with a chilling certainty and finality that left
little doubt in Ranma's mind that whatever had existed between
them before was irrevocably over.
     With a groan he sank back onto his futon.
     Soon after, the door slid open once again.  "Ranko . . .
Ranko, come on now, I thought I asked you to get up?"  He turned
his head slightly and watched as his mom stepped back into his
room.  With a sigh she placed a small tray next to the futon.  Faint
wisps of steam escaped from the spout of the small porcelain kettle
sitting on the tray; a cup lay next to it.  Ranma could not help but
look at the kettle somewhat nervously.  "Here," said Nodoka. 
"This should help.  It is a special Saotome recipe, renowned for
easing the effects of too much drinking.  At least," and she smiled
slightly, almost wistfully, "it helped my husband the many times I
served it to him."  Nodoka poured him a cupful of tea.
     Smiling tentatively in return, Ranma accepted her offer.  "Er
-- thanks," he said, raising the teacup to his lips.
     "Don't thank me until you taste it, dear," she answered, a
slightly mischievous glint to her eyes.  Ranma cast an inquisitive
look at his mother over the rim of the cup, then took a deep drink.
     The liquid was hot, bitter, thick, and thoroughly unpleasant. 
He almost gagged at the unexpected taste.  "No -- finish it, Ranko!"
insisted his mother forcefully, when, grimacing, he pulled the cup
away.
     "But. . . ."
     "Ranko. . . ."
     With a groan, he held his breath and tried a second time. 
The pungent liquid tasted like something Akane would cook up, he
thought wryly, as the last drop finally slid sluggishly down his
throat.
     "There.  That was not so bad, now was it, Ranko?"
     "Oh, not at all, Auntie Saotome," he said, leveling an even
stare at her and smiling crookedly.  "Just . . . wonderful."
     Nodoka gave a small laugh.  "It _is_ rather terrible, isn't
it?"
     Ranma nodded emphatically as his mother poured out
another cup.  "How much of this do I hafta drink, anyway?"
     "Depends on when you feel good enough to get up,"
answered the taller woman, smiling.
     "Ah."  He took the second cup and sniffed at it, nose
wrinkling at the piercing scent.  "Ugh.  Then I think I'll be getting
up soon, then."
     "That's the whole point, dear!"
     Ranma snorted, but gamely tried another tentative sip.  It
tasted just as bad as before.  "Does it hafta taste and smell so bad?"
he asked.
     Nodoka giggled, and leaned in closer.  "The truth, Ranko?"
she whispered conspiratorially.  "No!"
     "But. . . ."
     "I got into the habit of adding a few extra ingredients when
I made it for my husband.  Oh, how he hated the taste of it!  It was
just an extra incentive for him to not drink."  She contemplated that
idea for a moment.  "Not, mind you, that it ever helped."
     Ranma giggled in turn.  Then he looked down at the
viscous, dark drink, and shook his head.  "Well, I'm certainly not
gonna drink again!  Ever!"
     "The amount of times Genma said that as well!"
     No kidding, thought Ranma.  Pop sure never gave up
drinking after leaving home.  At least, he drank enough while we
wandered across Japan -- a fair bit in China -- and it certainly didn't
get any better after Jusenkyo.  But after last night -- no.  The fight
with Akane, all the stuff he had told his classmates, even the stupid
scanty bathing suit he was _still_ wearing: it was all the fault of last
night's drinking.  Akane.  He sighed.
     "Is there something wrong, Ranko?" asked his mother,
looking down at him with concern.
     Ranma shook his head, sighing again.  "Ah, gee, Auntie
Saotome.  It's -- it's nothing. . . ."  And then, suddenly, "Umm -- is
everyone else here?"
     "Everyone?  Or someone in particular, Ranko?"
     He looked at her suspiciously, but continued, "Is Akane
here?"
     Nodoka smiled.  "Yes, Akane is here.  She was quite
worried about you, Ranko."
     "Worried?"
     Nodoka nodded.  "And a little angry, too, I suppose," she
said.  "Although. . . ."
     He drooped and sighed.  Angry.  Of course Akane would be
angry.  She had every reason to be, especially after what he had said
and done.  But it's her fault too, whispered a voice in the back of
his head.  She insulted you first, she blamed you first, she _started_
it.  He cringed.  No!  He was to blame in this.  No matter what she
had said or done, Ranma knew he had gone too far this time.  He
had threatened her.  He had almost hurt her.  He had broken his
promise and ruined her night.  It had been her evening out, and he
had selfishly pushed her aside and made it his own.  Ranma's face
burned red with shame.
     ". . . I really can't blame her," continued his mother.  "After
all, I am pretty mad with you myself, Ranko."  A note of sternness
entered Nodoka's voice, and the Saotome 'daughter' stared
shamefacedly at her futon.
     "I . . . I'm sorry," he mumbled.  "I . . . I didn't mean to. . .
."  His voice choked.  He was almost surprised at his own reaction;
the feeling in his stomach, the trembling, the fear.  Everybody
knew.  Even his mother.  What had he done?
     A single finger gently lifted his chin up, and caring eyes
looked down at him.  "Ranko," said Nodoka, still firm, but with
added compassion and softness.  "I know you did not mean to --
but we did expect you to be more responsible.  I do not approve of
you drinking, but if you do -- do you not think that, maybe, you
should be a little more careful?"
     Ranma looked up at her in surprise.  Was that it?  What
about. . .
     "You were lucky to have Akane there to watch over you,"
added the elder Saotome.  "Really, Ranko, drinking to the point of
passing out!  I expected better from you!  If your cousin had not
found you and carried you home, who knows what could have
happened!  With all. . . ."
     "I passed out?" he interrupted.  "Akane carried me home?"
     "You don't remember?"
     He closed his eyes, tried thinking back again.  Talking with
friends.  Hiroshi.  Fighting with Akane (he winced unconsciously at
that once again).  Swimming.  And then . . . and then . . . blank.  He
shook his head.  "I . . . no.  I can't!"
     "What were you thinking, Ranko?"
     Ranma looked confused for a moment.  "Huh?"
     "Drinking like that?  With all those . . . those boys around!"
     "So?"
     Nodoka looked at him disbelievingly.  "A pretty young girl
like yourself, drunk, defenseless, dressed like that, surrounded by. .
. ."
     "Oh, Auntie -- I don't think you have to worry about that,"
he said dismissively, smirking.  "Trust me: the guys at the party
don't . . . ah, think of me that way.  Heh.  You could kinda say they
think of me as 'just one of the guys'."  But that's not quite true,
now is it, intruded a voice in the back of his head.  Hiroshi sure
thought you were hot, didn't he?  So did the other guys.  The way
they were looking at you -- they sure don't look at each other that
way.  The smile slipped, and Nodoka's half-concerned, half-
annoyed look deepened.
     "Ranko. . . ."
     "No, really," he insisted.  "Ok, maybe they _do_ look at me
kinda funny sometimes, but they wouldn't _dare_ touch me."  'Cus
I'd kill 'em, he thought grimly.  Besides, they all know I'm really a
guy, anyway.  Some of 'em may be perverts -- but they're not
_that_ bad!  "Really, Auntie!  If they tried. . . ." he inserted a
slightly threatening undercurrent to his voice and mimicked
throwing a few punches.
     His mother smiled slightly despite herself.  "You are such a
tomboy, sometimes," she said, shaking her head and standing. 
"Sometimes I despair of ever making a young lady out of you!"
     "I'm pretty hopeless, ain't I?"
     Nodoka cast a critical eye over her protege.  "Well . . . I
know one place to start.  We need to get you washed up and into
some decent clothing."
     Ranma wholeheartedly agreed.  He looked down at himself,
peeked beneath the sheets: he was still wearing nothing more than
Akane's bikini.  He felt dirty and grimy and, taking a sniff, he
noticed that he even smelt funny, too.  His mother was right -- a
nice, hot bath, and. . .  He looked up at his mother and sighed. 
Well, ok, maybe a not-as-nice cold scrubbing, instead, and he
would feel a _lot_ better.  The threat of his mother's idea of 'decent
clothing' kind of worried him, but he felt he had already
disappointed her enough already.  Disappointed everyone, really. 
He had a feeling that today was going to be a very long, very rough
day.
     "I'll go and make you a light lunch, ok, Ranko?" said his
mother, heading for the door.
     He nodded, paused, then turned to her.  "Lunch?"
     "Oh my, didn't you realize?  You slept most of the day
away, dear.  It is already almost three o'clock in the afternoon!" she
answered, and left the room.
     He groaned once again.  Maybe not such a long day after
all.  His one day off, and he wasted it away nursing a hangover. 
_Definitely_ the last time he would ever drink, he vowed -- it
simply was not worth it.  Eventually, and with a final sigh, he stood
up and headed to his dresser.  Grabbing a towel and taking a deep
breath, he prepared himself for the inevitable and headed for the
bathroom.


     Nodoka Saotome whistled a happy tune as she prepared a
light meal for Ranko, hands working with unconscious ease.  She
always felt comfortable and welcome at the Tendo's; it was strange,
really, that one place could generate such feeling of both pleasure
and profound disappointment.  Once again, her son and husband
were gone, training.  Though she recognized the need for constant
diligence and practice -- how else would her Ranma truly become a
man of honor, a man among men -- she still missed them terribly. 
Every time she visited, every time she discovered that they had
already left, she invariably felt depressed . . . momentarily.  For on
every visit, there was also Ranko.
     Ranko.  Such a sweet, spunky, vibrant girl; such a tomboy!  
So beautiful and confident, almost cocky and arrogant, and yet
obviously so unsure of her own femininity and insecure in her
development.  It had never been made clear, but Nodoka surmised
that the young girl was motherless; or perhaps Ranko and her
mother simply were not on speaking terms.  Whatever the reasons,
the Tendo cousin obviously needed and sought female guidance -- a
sort of mother-figure, as it were.  And Nodoka -- Nodoka was
more than pleased to fill that role.
     She frowned slightly as she stirred the broth.  Judging by
Ranko's current condition, it was also clear that that role needed
filling _now_.  Drinking to the point of passing out?  Picking a fight
at the party?  According to Akane, her cousin had even been flirting
with many of the boys there!  Unbelievable.  Worse, she seemed
utterly clueless as to what could happen to a pretty young girl at a
party like that.  The matriarch shook her head; Ranko and her were
going to have a little 'mother' and 'daughter' talk, soon, before she
left. . . .
     "Mmmm. . . ."  A voice interrupted her reverie.  Nodoka
glanced back as Nabiki stepped into the kitchen.  "Smells
wonderful, Mrs. Saotome!"
     Nodoka smiled.  "Thank you, Nabiki," she said, returning to
her soup.  Reaching over, she lifted up the pile of sliced green
onions on the blade of her cutting knife, and slid them into the
simmering broth.  "I'm making a soup for Ranko.  With her
stomach as queasy as it is, I doubt she could handle anything much
heavier."  As she talked she continued adding to her soup: celery,
carrots, leeks.
     The middle Tendo daughter stepped up to the stove and
peered in.  "Looks good," she said appreciatively, but with a slight
smirk.  Nodoka gave her an inquisitive glance.  Nabiki noticed and
grinned.  "I was just thinking of Ranko.  How's she feeling?"
     "As well as can be expected, I suppose, since I assume it
was her first time drinking."  She paused for a moment.  "It _was_
her first time, I imagine?"
     Nabiki shrugged.  "As far as I know."
     "Good.  And I hope it was her last.  It simply is not ladylike
to drink like that. . . ."
     "No kidding.  You'd almost think she was a _boy_, the way
she drank last night!"
     "Now, now," gently scolded Nodoka, "it is not nice to make
fun of your cousin like that."
     "I know," said Nabiki.  "I know.  It's just. . . well, you
weren't there, Mrs. Saotome.  Ranko looked so rough -- so
_funny_, when Akane dragged her home last night.  And she was
spouting absolute gibberish, too.  It was the first time I've seen . . .
Ranko, heh, drunk.  Absolutely priceless -- and I've got the pictures
to prove it!"
     "Nabiki!"
     The young girl grinned.  Nodoka turned back to her soup,
hiding a slight creasing of her brow.  After all, they were not her
children -- but sometimes, she found Nabiki to be just a little too
brash for her own good.  But it was not her place to say anything. 
Instead, she gave her soup a taste and nodded in satisfaction.
     "Almost done," she announced.  "Would you like some?"
     Nabiki took another sniff, and nodded.  "For sure!"
     "Do you think Akane would like some as well?"
     "Well," answered the Tendo, "She's been out in the dojo all
day -- which means that she's probably pretty hungry."  She paused
as if in thought for a moment.  "Did you mention whether Ranko
was coming down any time soon?"
     Nodoka pulled a small stack of bowls from the kitchen
cupboard.  "Ranko should be down any moment, the poor dear. 
She said she would eat right after a quick bath."
     "In a moment?" said Nabiki, grinning evilly.  "I'll go get
Akane right away!"  The girl turned and quickly strode from the
kitchen.


     Nabiki frowned as she watched her younger sister finish a
kata in the dojo.  The piles of shattered cinder blocks were
expected; this was not.  Akane was complete immersed within her
movements, moving with an intensity and -- and abandon, Nabiki
realized, that was quite unusual for her.  And yet, for all her
concentration, Akane's form was flawed, uncontrolled, almost
sloppy.  Even Nabiki could tell.  Which meant that something was
bothering her sister, something important.  It suddenly occurred to
Nabiki that, perhaps, something more serious than just Ranma
getting drunk and making an idiot of himself had happened at the
party last night.
     "Hey, Akane," she called out, stepping into the training hall.
     Her sister started at the sudden interruption, and completed
her technique messily.  "Na - Nabiki," she said, giving her head a
little shake.  "I didn't hear you come in."
     "You ok, Sis?" interrupted the older sister.  "You look a bit
out of it."
     Akane flushed slightly as she wiped the sleeve of her gi
across her forehead.  "It - it's nothing, Nabiki.  Just having a bit of
trouble concentrating."
     Obviously, thought Nabiki, but why?  No doubt that idiot
Saotome had insulted her or something last night.  Akane's recount
of the party had been rather sketchy this morning, and her story had
been full of holes, leaving large sections of the night unaccounted
for.  Nabiki had thought nothing of it -- what reason had she to be
suspicious?  If Ranma had done anything to annoy her, Akane could
be counted on to let the world know (as she had this morning); and
if her sister had been up to anything more . . . serious, like drinking
or something, than what of it?  Nabiki had had her first experiment
with alcohol at the very same party last year, and remembered that
night quite fondly; why deny Akane the same?
     But, obviously, _something_ had not gone well.  Perhaps
she ought to give a few friends a call.
     "So what did you want, Nabiki?" asked Akane.
     "Huh?  Oh.  Aunt Saotome just made some soup.  She
wants to know if you're hungry.  Smells good!" 
     Akane seemed to consider it for a moment, then gave a
single nod.  "Sure.  I guess I am," she answered, and fell into step
beside her sister.
     "So how are you feeling?" asked Nabiki.
     Akane shot her a sideway glance.  "Fine.  Why?"
     "You just seem a bit . . . tense.  Still pissed off at Ranma?"
     They stepped up onto the veranda.  "I don't want to talk
about it, Nabiki."
     "Oh, c'mon, Sis.  You sort of glossed over the details --
what did he do?  Fool around behind your. . . ," prodded Nabiki.
     "I said," exclaimed Akane loudly, as they stepped into the
house, "I don't want to talk about that hentai _baka_!"
     Sudden silence greeted their arrival.  Looking around,
Nabiki realized that they had all arrived at the table simultaneously:
Mrs. Saotome, stepping out of the kitchen with a tray laden with
bowls; father and Uncle Saotome (in panda form, of course)
crossing over from their habitual shogi-playing position; and finally
Ranma, turning the corner, wrapped in a towel and carrying his
bath accessories.
     Tension levels rose considerably.
     Mrs. Saotome was the first to break the silence.  With a
small frown, she turned to Akane and asked, "Are you talking
about my son, Akane dear?"
     The shift in her sister's demeanor was stunning.  She was
suddenly smiling --  though it fell far short of Akane's eyes and was
so obviously false and forced to anyone with any degree of
perception that Nabiki wondered how anyone could fail to see
through it -- and she answered in a too-too cheerful voice, "Not at
all, Aunt Saotome.  I was talking about . . . about some jerk at the
party last night.
     "Isn't that right . . . Ranko?"  And the forced smile, forced
cheerfulness in Akane's voice hit a chilling high as she turned to her
nervous-looking fiance.
     "Ah -- ah. . . ," he stammered, eyes flicking back and forth
across everyone in the room, seemingly unable to meet Akane's
steady gaze.
     "Say, how are you feeling, anyway, Ranko?" asked Akane,
and this time there was a slight, almost imperceptible tremor to her
voice, gone by the time she finished.  "You looked pretty sick last
night."
     "Er, ah -- yeah.  Fine.  I feel . . . fine."  He took a hesitant
step forward.  "I was, ah, just going to take a bath, Akane."  He
nervously crossed the room; Akane stepped back to give him space
to pass by; he hesitated once again before doing so.
     And as he drew up beside Akane, she asked, "Oh, and I was
wondering if you were done with my bikini yet, Ranko."  The
cheerfulness in her voice suddenly dropped like a rock, leaving her
words hard and cold.  "Was it worth it . . . Ranko?"
     Ranma flinched back as if slapped, then dropped his gaze to
the floor.  Finally, after a long-seeming moment, he raised his eyes
to Akane's, and matched her glare with a look -- a searching gaze,
an enigmatic glance -- that defied Nabiki's attempt to decipher. 
Another moment, then he sighed and stepped away.  Without
another word or look back, he stepped into the bathroom.
     "Well, I see she's looking much better!" said Mrs. Saotome
with honest brightness, serving out the bowls of soup.  Father and
Panda nodded sagely before tearing into their meal; Akane calmly
sat at the table and began eating methodically.  Nabiki shook her
head.  Something was _very_ wrong here, and obviously the adults
were too blind to realize it.  It seemed a few calls were in order. 
After lunch, of course.


     Ranma very calmly stepped into the bathroom and closed
the door behind him.  He leaned back heavily.  A deep sigh escaped
his lips.  Something akin to a shudder traversed his body, tremulous
hollow wave starting deep within and traveling to his extremities. 
One weary hand passed across his squeezed-shut eyes; he took a
deep breath and forced himself to relax.  He held the position for
what felt a long time.
     Was it worth it?  He recalled Akane's question.  Slowly,
reluctantly, he opened his eyes, let the towel fall away, glanced at
himself, at the clothes he was wearing.  Had it been worth it?
     No.
     And yet, deeper within, beyond the frightening painful
emptiness centered in the pit of his stomach, there was an insidious
sense that, maybe, possibly, it _had_ been worth it.  So Akane was
mad, whispered a voice, so what, she's always mad.  But now --
now he was popular, he had friends at school, things would be
different at Furinkan, he wouldn't be . . . be alone, anymore. 
Besides, the fight between him and Akane was not _his_ fault, it
was _hers_, that uncute. . . .
     "No. . . ," he hissed, voice escaping through clenched.  No. 
He shouldn't . . . he couldn't fall back on that, on old insults and
easy excuses.  This was serious.   Passing by Akane, he had
searched her face, her eyes, seeking the slightest glimmer of
forgiveness.  In vain.  Only coldness and hard indifference had
reflected his pleading, anxious look.  And he realized that, up until
then, he had still been hoping -- no, expecting! -- her to let him off
the hook.
     But it was not going to happen.
     With sudden alacrity he pushed away from the door,
reached behind and unhooked the  bikini top; with a quick wiggle
and kick he tore off the bottom.  He scooped up both and dumped
them in the bathroom anteroom's hamper.  There.  For what it was
worth . . . the bathing suit was gone.  A meaningless act, perhaps . .
. but a start nonetheless.  It left him feeling slightly better.
     Actually, he realized, he felt a _lot_ better.  Akane's
too-small top had been constricting his breasts for, what, over
twelve hours now?  It felt good to let his chest loose.  But then he
looked down at his ample bosom, the soft, full flesh that made him
something other than what he truly was, and grew angry.  It should
not feel 'nice' to let his chest loose, he should never have had to
bind it up in the first place!  One fist convulsed in anger.  Damn
curse!  Stupid, stupid, impossible curse!  He glanced through the
sliding door, into the bathroom and at the furo itself; light wisps of
steam curled up from the ready and waiting bath.  Good.  Mother
or not, he _would_ return to maleness, even if only for a few
minutes.  He was a man -- and he needed to feel like one again.  
     Decision made, he stalked over to the bath, not even
bothering to slide the door shut behind him.  His towel lay in a
crumpled heap in the middle of the anteroom.  It was inconsiderate
for him to climb into the bath like this, still dirty, unclean, without
scrubbing; he did not care.  He wanted his height, his weight, his
manhood back.  He lifted one leg up and over.
     "Oh, Ranko dear. . . ."
     With sudden uncanny speed and skill, he brought his leg
down and pushed off the ceramic edge of the bath; he caught
himself easily as he fell back, hand-springing off the slick floor,
twisting in midair; before his mother could even complete her
cursory knock, he landed on the little stool in the anteroom and
flipped up his bucket of bathing products with one foot.  The door
opened and in stepped his mother.
     "Ranko . . . Ranko?  You haven't even started bathing yet?"
she asked, surprised.
     "Oh, ah . . . not yet, Auntie Saotome!" he answered, forcing
a girlish giggle.  "I guess I still felt a little tired, and. . . ."
     "Are you feeling okay, dear?" she asked, stepping into the
room and softly closing the door behind her.  "You look a bit
flushed.  Maybe I should not have forced you up so quickly."
     Ranma shook his head.  "Oh, it's ok, Mrs. Saotome!  I'll be
fine!"
     "Are you sure?"  After laying a bundle of clothing on the
counter, she knelt down next to Ranma and brought one hand up to
his forehead.  "I can take my bath with you, if you like, wash your
back for you. . . ."
     "No!" exclaimed Ranma, and then again, somewhat less
excitedly, "No.  I'll be fine, really."  He stood up and smiled.  "See,
I feel. . ."  Then, realizing he was completely naked, he blushed
furiously, snagged his towel from the floor, and wrapped it around
his female body.  "Ah . . . sorry 'bout that."
     His mother smiled, but cast a careful eye over her 'daughter'. 
"Are you sure you feel fine?"  When he nodded, she relaxed and
turned back to the door.  "Well, okay then.  Just remember that
your soup is getting cold.  Don't take too long, Ranko!"
     "I won't, Auntie!" he answered.
     "Oh, and I left some clothes for you, for after you clean up,"
she said as she closed the door behind her.  One hand pointed
vaguely toward the counter where she had deposited the bundle,
then withdrew.  The door clicked shut.
     Ranma watched after her for a moment, then sank back
onto the stool with a relieved sigh.  Close -- too close.  He glanced
over at the bath again and decided that, maybe, he _could_ accept
being female for just a little longer.  He released a dry chuckle.  To
think, he thought, that I actually believed I could have a little
_privacy_ in my own bathroom!  As if.
     Except, of course, it was not his bathroom, nor his house. 
It was the Tendo's, and at any given time, they had every right to
interrupt him, intrude on a private moment -- or throw him out. 
Had they not done so a number of times in the past?  He was a
guest here, he had very few possessions to call his own, and his
residence was a perpetual debt hovering over his head.  Of course,
now, after what he had done last night. . . .  Ranma shivered. 
Shaking his head, he trudged over to the taps and filled a bucket
with cold water.  He then settled down on his stool and started to
lather up.  Goosebumps rose as the chilling washcloth passed across
arms, stomach, chest.
     He continued to wash absently as his mind wandered.  What
was he going to do?  Strangely enough, it seemed as if Akane had
not yet told his or her father about what had happened last night. 
Hangover notwithstanding, Pop and Mr. Tendo would most
certainly have been banging on his door the moment they found out
that Akane had called off the engagement.  In the brief time he had
seen Nabiki before stepping into the bathroom, she had not seemed
aware of what had gone on, either.  So obviously Akane had only
told part of the story -- the parts where he drank himself silly and
had a good time.  Was that a good thing?  Did that mean that,
perhaps, there was a possibility of somehow, with time, of working
this through?
     An involuntary gasp and sudden start snapped him out of his
revery, as he unconsciously passed the icy cloth a little close to his
private regions.  Sighing, he turned his attention back to his
scrubbing.  At the rate he was going, he would never be done. 
Although, added Ranma somewhat bleakly, why hurry?  Things
were only going to be worse out there..
     Ranma returned to his task . . . and his stomach, after a
quick glance down, sank even further.   "Ah . . . aw _shit_!" he
groaned, and winced.  There, on his inner thigh, was a speckling of
brownish red.  Blood.  He looked closer: more staining, nearer his
female genitals.  It could only mean one thing: his period.  And it
looked heavier than normal, too.  "Great, just . . . just great," he
grumbled.   It must have started during the night or something, he
reasoned.  He tried remembering the last time it had hit -- whether
he had avoided it by remaining male -- tried counting the days --
lost track and gave up with a scowl.  Whatever.  He was a guy,
dammit, and all that crap was a girl's problem!  With unnecessary
vigor he attacked the dried spots.
     Just what he needed.  On top of everything else -- his
hangover, his mom, Akane -- did he have to deal with this, too? 
Could this day get any worse?
     And as he doused himself with the rest of the bucket of
water, and shivered violently under the sudden cold, he
remembered the bundle of clothing his mother had carried in. 
Undoubtably feminine clothing -- with frills and pink and bows and
stuff like that.  Silly him.  Of _course_ things can worse, he
groused, standing up and reaching for his towel.  Now all I need is
for Ryoga to show up. . .


     Spin and rise. Momentary flash in the sunlight as it reached
it apex. Momentary hang, then downwards tumble.  Unconscious
swift movement and the bottlecap was snatched out of the air. 
Replaced in the nook formed between thumb and index finger, and
snapped back up.
     Ryoga steadfastly walked through unfamiliar Nerimean
backstreets, flipping a slightly crumpled cap every few steps.  He
was not in a good mood.  He was not having a good day.  But he
nevertheless grinned evilly at the thought of making Ranma's day a
whole lot worse.


     After quickly finishing off her soup in silence, Akane
returned to her room.  There, away from everyone, from her sisters,
her dad, Ranma's parents -- away from _Ranma_, that insufferable,
unforgivable, insulting _jerk_ -- she could release her anger.  It was
a slow, silent, controlled release; for several minutes after closing
her door and sitting on the edge of her bed, all she could do was
tremble, whole body taut, hot tears threatening to slip free, hands
twisted in the folds of her sheets, fabric clutched violently.  Finally,
after an indefinite time, her breathing slowed, the shaking eased,
muscles relaxed.  She took in a deep breath; she released it; she
blinked away the wetness in her eyes and stood up.
     She walked in a tight circle in the middle of her room.  I
need to get out of here, she realized.  It doesn't matter where.  I
just have to leave.  I can't stand to be in the same house as him.  I
hate him.  I hate him I hate him I hate him!
     "It hurts, Akane.  It hurts. . ."  Soft, almost whimpering
remembered voice, slicing through the haze of anger gripping her
mind.  Her stomach twisted in a harsh, sickening knot.  "S'not your
fault," whispered the phantom voice.  Akane's angry steps stopped;
the earlier shaking returned.  She glanced down at her trembling
arms, and hugged herself.  If you're so angry at him, she unwillingly
asked herself, then why are you so worried?
     I'm not worried, she insisted.
     "Akane. . ."
     Ranma can take care of himself.
     Nothing ever happens to Ranma that he can't handle.
     "It hurts. . ."
     He doesn't deserve my concern.
     He's an insensitive, mean, cruel jerk!
     "Akane. . ."
     "I have to get out of here!" she screamed, threatening tears
of frustration suspended in her eyes.  Without another word,
hesitation, she grabbed a light sweater and stormed out of the
room.  Her door slammed behind her, the duck sign banging
woodenly in response.  A moment later the front door to the Tendo
Residence slammed as well.


     As Ranma walked along the edge of the canal, he found
himself wishing that he could be anywhere else -- practicing in the
dojo, killing time at Ucchan's, fighting with Mousse -- than with his
mother; but the very recognition that he could think such things
about her left him feeling guilty and vaguely ill, and so he drew
closer to her.
     "Are you okay, Ranko?"
     "Yes, Auntie Saotome," he answered.
     It was a lie, of course, but she seemed to accept it.  They
continued walking, his mother gazing as if in silent contemplation
out over the slowly moving water.  The sun was starting to lie low
on the horizon, having already begun its nocturnal decent; the first
streamers of red and orange crept across the sky, and the mirror of
their color rippled quietly below.  A pleasantly warm mid-July wind
tickled their skin.  Ranma sighed softly.
     I oughta be happy to be able to spend some time with my
mom, he thought morosely.  He tugged at the high collar of the
dress he was wearing, squirmed slightly in its constraining bodice. 
But he wasn't.  Other concerns -- the party, the fight, Akane --
weighed heavily upon his mind, and the wonderful sight of the
setting sun, which drew a pleased exclamation of delight from his
mother, was entirely lost upon him.  He appreciated his mother's
offer for a late afternoon stroll; she was right, the fresh air _was_
doing him some good.  But the inevitable nervousness that came
with being around her, and the impossibility of forgetting the
problems awaiting for him when he returned home -- to the
Tendo's home, he amended -- made it impossible for him to glean
any enjoyment out of the walk.  Problems; Akane.  His steps
slowed.  Images of Akane's face rose before him: glaring at him in
contempt as he asked to borrow her bikini; the widening of the
eyes, the profound shock and hurt and look of betrayal, as he
applied pressure to her wrist; the violent, unthinking rage as she
turned on him, struck him, ended the engagement; the cold,
emotionless gaze as he passed her today on the way to the
bathroom.  And then --  as he first recalled truly seeing her: half-
leaning over his shoulder, long tresses framing relaxed, happily-
smiling face, extending an offer of friendship -- 'you want to be
friends?'  It was too much: the tension between where they had
started, and where they now were, was great; a vacuous unpleasant
sensation, a discordant echo of feelings admitted to and forgotten
last night, arose and twisted his stomach.  His steps faltered and he
leaned against the railing, one hand viciously gripping the pitted
metal.  Eyes squeezed shut against imminent tears.
     "Ranko?"  Tender arms reached for him, offered a
comforting embrace.
     Ranma shook his head once.  He took a deep breath.  He
blinked, and stepped away.
     Nodoka looked momentarily hurt.  "Ranko . . . please dear,
what is wrong?"
     Looking up at her, up at his mother, at her concerned look,
sympathetic eyes, he realized that he needed to talk to someone
about his problems; he realized that, maybe, the one person he
_could_ talk to was standing next to him, offering support, and was
more than willing to listen.  He would have to be careful, of course,
but the sudden possibility of an understanding ear overrode his
worries. 
     "I. . . ," he started, then faltered.  He swallowed.  "I need
your advice, Auntie Saotome.  I may have done something really
stupid last night.  At the party."
     His mother looked down at him for a moment,
understanding dawning in her eyes.  "Ah.  This is about you and
Akane, isn't it, Ranko?"
     Ranma blinked in surprise.  "How did you know?"
     Nodoka smiled.  "A mother notices these things -- even one
who hasn't seen her son in ten years."  Ranma smiled wanly as she
continued.  "But it was pretty obvious that Akane was angry today
-- angry at my son, and angry at you.  You girls normally get along
so nicely!  But not today."  She hesitated momentarily.  "Would
you like to talk about it?"
     Ranma nodded.  "But not here, Auntie Saotome," he said,
and took her by the hand.  "There's a park not too far away; we can
sit down and talk.  Would that be okay?"
     Nodoka agreed, and the two -- mother and son, hand in
hand -- resumed their walk.  But with each step Ranma found it
more and more difficult to remain silent.  Now that an outlet had
been offered, he discovered a burgeoning need to use it arising
within.  He doubted his mother could give him any easy solutions,
but just having someone listen to _his_ side of the story for once
was an opportunity he could not ignore.  So it was that, even before
they arrived at the park and with very little preamble, Ranma found
himself opening up concerning the party of the night before.
     "I guess it starts with, ah, me, joining Ranma and Akane on
their way to the party."  It felt weird, talking about himself in the
third person, having to describe an event from a different and
nonexistent viewpoint.  "Ranma and Akane were fighting.  Again."
      He sighed, glanced up at his mother.  She was looking
ahead, eyes attentive.  She nodded for Ranma to continue.
     "Akane didn't want Ranma coming along to the party,
hanging around her or something.  I dunno why. . . ."  He paused,
then hesitantly continued after a moment's thought.  "Maybe . . .
maybe she wanted to be alone.  With her friends.  Or . . . or just
wanted a night to herself, without me -- without Ranma -- around. 
I dunno."  He shook his head and shrugged.  "I don't.  Anyway,
when they got to the party, Akane went her way and Ranma went
his."
     "And you?" interjected his mother.
     "Oh.  I, er, I went with Ranma."
     "Did he seem . . . angry?  Disappointed?"
     "Ranma seemed. . . ."  He wavered.  How had he felt?  He
didn't know -- he wasn't used to, didn't like talking about, his
emotions.  Ranma thought back to early last evening, walking
towards Kiyoshi's house with Akane.  When she had asked him to
leave her alone at the party, to not hang around with her, he had felt
. . . insulted.  Insulted, and . . . nervous?  But he had replied with
insults of his own.  By the time they had arrived at Kiyoshi's, they
were no longer speaking, and their separation at that point had
come as something of a relief.
     "Ranko?"
     "Oh, sorry Auntie.  I . . . I guess Ranma seemed mostly
angry."  And yes, disappointed, he realized.  He frowned.  Why
should he have cared whether that uncute tomboy wanted him
around or not?  Only he realized that her rejection _had_ hurt, and
in the aftermath of that unexpected pain had been a lingering . . .
fear.  Eyes widening, he wondered at his own reaction.
     "Was that all?"
     He snapped back to the present.  "I guess so.  Ranma
doesn't talk much about how he feels.  He doesn't like to whine -- I
think he considers it's unmanly."
                         Nodoka nodded, a hint of a smile on her face.     
     "So we wandered around the place a bit, until we bumped
into some school buddies of his.  We joined up with them, and then
sat and hung around a campfire for a while.  And talked, pretty
much."
     "Really?  About what?" asked his mother.
     "Oh, mostly about girls and all that -- you know, guy stuff."
     Nodoka raised an eyebrow.  "Ranko!  And you stayed and
listened?"
     Ranma had the good sense to blush.  "Well -- it's like I said,
Mrs. Saotome, most of them think of me as 'one of the guys'.  It
wasn't a big deal or nothin', and I didn't mind.  It was fun, kinda." 
The irony of it suddenly struck him: for while his words were true,
he realized that a good part of the previous night's conversation
had also concerned 'girl's stuff' -- that is, his problems and
experiences with his cursed form.  Somehow, he doubted his
mother would like to hear that he had discussed his period with a
bunch of boys.
     His mother's brow creased with a slight frown.  "I see we
will have to talk about this at another time, my dear.  But I'm
guessing it is here that you started to drink?"
     Ranma gave a careful nod.  "Errr, yeah.  Well, not quite yet
-- I didn't start until later."
     "And did my son drink?"
     He actually considered this for several long moments before
answering.  Technically, he hadn't.  Ranko had drank -- had drank
quite a bit, in fact; but _Ranma_ had left the party via a splash of
Ryuta's drink by then, and never actually touched a drop.  Nor ever
would, he vowed.  But at this time he refused to deny that he had
drank last night -- to do so would be too close to lying, and he did
enough of that with his mother as it was.  "Yeah.  Yeah, he drank
too."  He briefly wondered why he felt reluctant to tell his mother
that her son had consumed alcohol.
     She nodded, seeming unperturbed.  "So what happened
next?"
     "Well," continued Ranma, "this guy, this real asshole. . . ."
     "Ranko!  Language!"
     "Sorry.  This . . . jerk," he amended,  "called Ryuta Uehara
came over and started to bully some of Ranma's friends.  Ranma
didn't put up with it -- he hates bullies -- and, ah, convinced the guy
to leave.  But the guy didn't clue in: Ryuta came back, drunk and
mean and tried to pick a fight with Ranma.  Your . . . your son tried
ignoring him at first, but then that . . . that _jerk_ started getting
personal.  He started insulting Ranma's manhood, called him weak
and womanly and insinuated . . . other stuff."
     "Other stuff?"
     "He. . ."  How to put this, Ranma wondered.  He treaded
forward delicately, carefully choosing his words.  "He, ah, insulted
me as well -- insinuated that I had . . . you know. . ."
     Nodoka looked down, frowning.  "This boy. . . ."
     "He said that I'd kissed guys; said that I'd . . . had sex with.
. ."  He flushed with remembered anger, one hand clenching at his
side.
     "I see," said his mother, and an undercurrent of anger
darkened her voice.  "And then?"
     "And then. . .  Well, he pushed and pushed until Ranma
simply couldn't take it anymore.  But you see, Ranma didn't want
to fight -- couldn't fight!  He had promised Akane at the beginning
of the party that he wouldn't ruin her night, wouldn't get into any
fights or anything.  But he couldn't ignore the insults to his
masculinity!  Stuck between his honor and his promise, he finally
just . . . just snapped."  Ranma took a deep breath.  He realized that
his voice was loud; he was trembling slightly.  He looked up at his
mother.
     "What did he do?" she asked in a soft voice.
     "He grabbed Ryuta and beat him up.  Beat him up bad," he
answered in a subdued tone.
     Nodoka stopped walking and turned to her protege.  She
gently lay her hands on the smaller girl's shoulders.  "Do you think
my son did the right thing?"
     And Ranma desperately wanted to answer 'yes', wanted to
justify his own actions; but he knew he couldn't, he needed an
honest, unbiased judgement, and so he refrained from giving the
easy response.  "I don't know, Auntie!  He -- he promised that he
wouldn't fight; but then, the things Ryuta said  -- I don't see how
he could _not_ have!"
     "The things this boy said were mean?"
     "Mean and cruel and . . . and untrue!" he answered fiercely.
     "They slandered my son's manliness?"
     He nodded emphatically.
     "And my son hurt this boy?  He was brutal?"
     Ranma gave a slow nod.
     "Good," said Nodoka with an air of finality.  Her eyes shone
with a hard light.  She resumed walking.  "No one insults my son's
manliness."


     Akane hugged herself and gazed unseeingly out over the
darkly flowing waters of the canal.  She stood oblivious, her
thoughts as aimless and twisting as the last hour's confused
wandering.  But at least the urge to cry is gone, she thought.  So
was her anger.  Her concern.  She felt hollow, empty.  A shiver
passed through her, one unwarranted by the warm night air.  After
a time devoid of thought or meaning, her knees folded below her;
she sank down, hands slipping along the smooth bars of the fence,
then holding her up as she crouched, leaning back but hunched
over, still looking sightlessly outwards.  She noticed a muddy
spattering in the dirt by her feet.  Oh, look, she noted absently, I
guess I was wrong.  I'm crying.  Strange, to shed tears and yet feel
nothing.
     But no, not nothing, for as she became aware of her tears,
she felt the pain well up within.  No, she mouthed, no, not here, not
now.  Not yet.  I. . .
     "Akane?"
     Hearing a voice call out her name startled her.  She blinked,
rubbed the back of one hand across her eyes.  For a moment she felt
surprised to be squatting by the river, unsure of the exact path that
had led her here.
     "Akane?" repeated the voice, behind and closer.
     She stood, legs protesting from the sudden action, creaking
and tingly.  For how long had she held that unthinking position? 
No longer a focus, inner pain faded; a dull expansive greyness took
its place.  Akane turned away from the water. 
     It was Sayuri approaching her, and as she neared and caught
a good glimpse of Akane her expression changed from one of
greeting to one of concern.  "Akane -- Akane, are you alright?"
     The youngest Tendo tried forcing a smile to her lips.  "Hi
Sayuri!  Of course I'm okay -- really! -- why wouldn't I be?"  She
blinked rapidly to clear her eyes.
     Sayuri stepped nearer.  For several long moments she gazed
at Akane searchingly, before frowning and shaking her head.  "No
way, Akane.  Something's wrong."
     "No, really. . . !"
     "Sorry," interrupted her friend, grabbing her hand.  "But I
don't buy it."  She proceeded to pull Akane away from the fence. 
"C'mon, follow me.  I think we need to talk."
     "But. . . !"
     "No 'buts', Akane!" insisted the long-haired girl.  "There's
a great little kissaten near here.  I'll buy you a coffee, and you can
tell me all about it.  It's about Ranma, right?"
     "Well. . ."
     "I thought so," said Sayuri decisively, and led the way. 
Bemused, and grateful despite herself, Akane followed without
another word.  Maybe this is just what I need, she thought.  Maybe
I just need somebody to talk to.


     "One moment, dear," interjected Nodoka, interrupting
Ranko's narrative.  "Why did my son not want to go swimming
with the rest of his friends?  Did he say?"
     It took a few moments for the young girl to answer, and she
seemed very hesitant in her choice of words.  Something was
nagging at the Saotome matriarch: there was a strangeness or
oddity to the Tendo cousin's story that Nodoka couldn't quite put a
finger on.  Something in the way Ranko stammered before every
response; something in the way the girl carefully contemplated
every question before uttering a word.  But why?  Could she be
protecting Ranma from something?  Or was she simply embarrassed
by retelling the previous night's activities?
     "Well," said Ranko, "I guess -- I . . . I'm not sure.  I'd like
to think it was because he was worried and wanted to check in on
Akane . . . but . . . but in all honestly, I don't think that was it." 
She swallowed; Nodoka wondered if it was out of nervousness. 
"Part of it was simply because he didn't have any swimming trunks
with him -- he hadn't planned on swimming.  But it's more than
that, I think."  Again she paused, thinking, and stared off across the
park.  Nodoka wondered what she could see in the encroaching
darkness.  When Ranko continued her voice seemed distant.  "I
think . . . I think he was nervous.  Maybe even scared.  Not very
manly, I realize," and she glanced up at the older woman, "but --
there it is."
     "Scared?"
     "Yeah, scared."  Ranko gave a vague nod.  "Because. . ." 
Her voice trailed off, and her face twisted in frustration.  "Because -
- I don't know!  I don't know.  He just . . . he can't . . . he doesn't
know how to . . . relate . . . say what he wants to!"  The pigtailed
redhead took a deep breath.  "He doesn't fit in.  He doesn't have
any friends.  And throw him into a situation like that -- something
social, something _fun_ -- and he's . . . scared.  He doesn't know
what to do."  Almost as if expressing herself had proven
exhausting, she slumped forward with head hanging low.  "There."
     Nodoka looked down at the young girl with some surprise. 
That Ranma was having trouble fitting in was concern enough; that
Ranko took it so seriously, so personally, was further matter of
importance.  Earlier suspicions consolidated in her mind.  An
ephemeral inkling of what the relationship between Ranko and
Ranma might be formed.  "So what did you do?" she asked.
     Ranko started.  "Err . . . me?"
     "Yes Ranko, you.  Ranma decided to leave, and I think I
can understand some of the reasons why he did so.  But did you
follow him?  Did you stay at the party?  Did you try and find Akane
and tell her that her fiancee  was leaving?"
     "I . . . followed Ranma back into the house."
     Of course, thought Nodoka.  She would, despite -- judging
by Ranko's own account of the party -- having a good time at the
party.  "And then?"
     "And then. . ."  Ranko gulped and seemed to shrink in upon
herself.  She lowered her eyes to the well-scuffed ground at her
feet.
     "Then?"
     "Then . . . Ranma met Akane."


     "And then you met Ranma," confirmed Sayuri.
     Akane nodded.  She took a sip of her coffee, and felt
strangely ambivalent about continuing the conversation.  She
appreciated her friend's effort to cheer her up, to help her work
through the current dilemma; yet, at the same time, there was a . . .
resistance within, an urge to not dig too deep into submerged
emotions.  I need to talk about this, Akane realized, let my feelings
out -- but what else might I find? 
     "And then. . . ," prodded the girl siting opposite her.
     "What do you think?  We fought.  Like we always do." 
Akane scowled.
     "Not like you always do . . . definitely _not_ like you always
do, Akane.  I've seen you two fight before; I've _never_ seen you
break off the engagement!"  Sayuri leaned in a little closer, eyes
fixated eagerly on the youngest Tendo.  "I heard -- well, I heard
lots of things, about what happened, about why it happened. 
Enough to get me worried.  What happened, Akane?  I'd like you
to tell me. . ."
     Akane stared at her friend, uncertain.  She turned away,
looked outside.  It was dark, streetlights dropping small pools of
paleness through which she glimpsed intermittent snapshots of
passing life.  There, two young girls, walking, laughing, probably
friends; but as they entered the next circle of light one was
frowning, lips pressed tightly together, as the other continued
laughing, oblivious to her companion's anger.  Then Akane's eyes
shifted, and she was no longer looking through the glass, but at it,
the dark, herself reflected.  With a sigh she turned back to her
schoolmate and, still feeling oddly detached from her own words,
began explaining.
     "Well . . . after you and Yuka and Keiko and everyone else
took off to join the guys at the pool, I went downstairs to grab my
stuff, right?"  Mouth dry, she took another drink.  "Well, that's
where I met Ranma.  We bumped into each other.  He was getting
ready to leave.  We talked a bit, and . . . well, he was being weird."
     "Weird?  How?"
     Akane shrugged.  "Nice, weird.  Almost flirting, weird." 
Seeing Sayuri's raised eyebrow, she hastened to add, "He was
drunk, of course.  The stupid jerk."  There was a momentary
sadness within, the first emotion she recalled feeling in some time. 
Why did he have to be drunk, or under magical influence, or think
he was a cat, to act half-way human around her?  And why did it
have to be such an infrequent occasion that she viewed any such
extension of genuine kindness towards her from him with
suspicion?  "Anyway.  So we grabbed our stuff.  But we didn't
leave.  Just as I thought we were going to, Ranma stopped and
asked me if he could borrow my bikini."  She paused, slightly
puzzled.  Strange.  Last night, the idea of that pervert borrowing
her bathing suit had enraged her; now, aside from a slight residual
embarrassment, she felt nothing.
     Sayuri nodded.  "Yeah, that's right.  I wanted to ask you
about that.  I saw her wearing it at the pool.  That bitch was
flaunting it off like it was hers or something."  Scowling, she spat
out a single word, "Pervert!" as if it fully summed up her feelings. 
It probably did.
     For a moment Akane felt an irrational irritation at her friend
insulting her former fiance, but quickly reminded herself that
Sayuri's assessment was true.  He _was_ a pervert and, though she
had never thought to apply it to him, did not the other word fit as
well?
     "So then . . . why did you lend it to her?"
     Akane's countenance darkened.  "I didn't lend it to him at
all, Sayuri.  He must have picked it up after we fought.  After I left. 
After. . ."  Knuckles whitened on her mug.  "I can't believe . . . I
can't believe he actually went _swimming_ after we broke up!" 
Another emotion joined her repertoire for the evening: anger. 
"That . . . that insensitive jerk!"  She fixated her glare on Sayuri. 
"Were you there?  What did that baka do?"
     Smirking slightly, Sayuri leaned back into her seat.  "Are
you sure you want to know?"  She gestured at Akane's claw-like
grip of the coffee mug.  "You're looking pretty tense as is . . . and
I'm afraid this isn't going to make you any happier."
     For a moment -- briefly, an instant of doubt -- she hesitated:
did she really want to know?  Her anger with Ranma already felt
complete; what would it avail her to despise him more?  And yet . .
. she had to know, _had_ to know, what had happened during the
previous night.
     She gave a slight nod for Sayuri to continue, and listened
attentively as her friend ran through  the events of the party after
Akane's departure.  Sayuri certainly seemed to enjoy the telling,
and left out no detail.  The narrative was quite damning, and Akane
found a whole sequence of emotions passing through her; or at the
least, a single emotion building and intensifying within.  Ranma,
happily swimming; Ranma hanging around with the guys; Ranma,
flirting with the girls; Ranma drinking and partying and playing and
having a _great_ time, while _she_ wandered, crying, through
Nerima.  How could he?  And she was _worried_ about him?  That
. . . that. . .
     ". . . Saw her one last time," Sayuri was saying, "as she
headed back into the house to use the bathroom.  You should have
seen her -- she was seriously messed up.  Drunk, big time.  To hear
her talk!  She said. . ."  Sayuri hesitated for a moment.  "Well, what
she said isn't important . . . but she had trouble getting it out, and
Hiroshi and I could barely understand her, her speech was so
slurred.  That's the last I saw of her that night.  Drunker than I
think I've ever seen anyone before.  It's a wonder she hadn't
already passed out!"
     The feverish pounding within drained with such speed and
suddenness that she felt cold and empty in comparison.  Well, she
thought.  Well.  That certainly explains the state I found him in,
doesn't it.  The idiot got himself drunk -- got himself drunk _fast_.
     "Akane!"
     She slowly returned her attention to her friend, who was
looking at her with some concern.  It took a moment to understand
why.  Akane turned her attention to her hand, to the remnants of
the mug still clutched in her grasp, the jagged ceramic edges cutting
into her palm, the warm liquid spattered across her forearm and
dripping onto the table.  A moment of incomprehension, then she
opened her hand.  Broken fragments clattered to the floor.  She
blinked.  "Oh.  Oh my.  I . . . I'm sorry."
     "Are you alright?"  Sayuri rushed over to Akane's side of
the table, grabbed her unresisting hand to check it for injury. 
Akane barely noticed.  With her anger gone, but her mind
reawakened from its earlier apathy or denial by the emotion's
passage, a host of questions and concerns were suddenly assailing
her.  She needed to think.
     "You're lucky.  You didn't get cut, or burnt."  Sayuri's
words tumbled out.  "You -- are you even listening to me? 
Akane?"
     "I . . . I need a moment to think, Sayuri," she answered. 
She glanced down at her hand and absently shook some of the
coffee off.  "Something just occurred to me."
     Sayuri held her friend's gaze for several long moments,
before nodding.  "I'll . . . I'll get a cloth, tell the waitress what
happened, and, uh, go to the washroom, okay?  I'll be back soon,
and then maybe you can . . . ah, finish telling me what happened?" 
She got no response.  Frowning slightly, she walked off.  Akane
hardly took note of her departure.
     
     
     On a bench in a park sat two women, illuminated palely by
the light behind them.  They sat in silence.  To a passing observer,
the similarity of look and dress between the two made them appear
as mother and daughter: and if so, the younger redhead had done
something to terribly anger her older companion, for the taller
woman was staring sternly into the darkness, mouth set in a thin,
hard line, while the girl kept her eyes locked despondently on the
ground, one foot digging nervously at the dirt.
     The mother was the first to speak.  She did so without
turning her head, and her daughter started at the sudden
vocalization.  "So Akane left the party, alone."  It was not a
question.
     The younger girl nodded numbly.
     "And my son did not follow her."
     The daughter shook her head without looking up.
     "Nor did you."
     Again a slow nod.
     "Instead you both chose to remain at the party and enjoy
yourselves."
     For a moment the younger girl seemed to hesitate, perhaps
considering a protest, but then mouthed a barely audible, "yes."
     "I see.  Furthermore, as a result of the quarrel between my
son and your cousin, my future daughter-in-law, the engagement
between the two -- an engagement decided upon by both their
parents sixteen years previously -- has been terminated."
     "Ye -- yes."
     "And, in the aftermath of this disaster, instead of remaining
to face his dilemma head on like a man, my son has chosen to run
off?"  This time it was a question, and the older woman turned her
eyes, stern and seemingly flashing with barely suppressed fury,
upon the young girl.  The pigtailed redhead met her gaze for a brief
moment before flinching away, crimson-faced.
     "He -- he left, yes, but, but. . ."
     "But what?" interrupted the older woman, and for a
moment her restrained anger was clear, her voice lashing out at the
cringing girl.  "Eh, Ranko?  What?  What could excuse my son's
dishonorable actions?"  With sudden vigor she leapt to her feet,
began stalking back and forth before the park bench.  "That he
drank, I can accept.  Men drink, often to excess. That he ignored
Akane all night, and chose to remain with his male friends, I, too,
can understand.  Genma has oft done the same to me, and I see
nothing unusual in Ranma doing likewise.  That Ranma got into a
fight with a bully, that my son broke his promise to Akane, I not
only accept, but approve of -- the slur against both his manliness
and your honor took precedence over his oath to his fiancee.  And
that my son argued with Akane, and fought with her -- well, though
I am certainly disappointed, I have come to understand that the two
do not always get along, and I suppose that a certain tension
between the two is not entirely surprising.
     "But that my son actually hurt Akane . . . that he willingly
chose to inflict physical pain upon her to end an argument, I find
both cowardly and weak and unforgivable, and by doing so he
makes me question the entirety of the last ten years of his training
and the quality of the values instilled in him by my husband.  What
of all those training voyages?  Were they wasted?  Did my son
grow up to be a true martial artist, or a mere bully no better than
the one who slurred his manliness hours previously?"
     "No," yelled the young girl, leaping to her feet.  "No!"  "For
a moment she wavered there, trembling slightly, seemingly
surprised by her own temerity.  But before the older woman could
recover, she forged ahead.  "It wasn't like that, mo -- Auntie
Saotome!  I . . . he, he didn't want to hurt Akane, he never meant
to, he felt, no, he feels terrible that he did so, he'd never, couldn't,
do something like that again!  Ranma Saotome doesn't hit girls!" 
Her voice sank to a whisper.  "Ranma Saotome never hits girls."
     "Well my son," the elder Saotome ground out, "certainly
seemed to have forgotten that last night."
     "It was -- it was the alcohol, and the fight, and, and. . ."
     "And that makes it okay?"
     Ranko hung her head.  "No."
     "And now, when the opportunity exists for him to offer
some kind of explanation, to make amends -- where is he?"
     "He's. . ."  Ranko swallowed nervously, looked away as if
unable to meet the older woman's eyes.  "He's gone on another
training trip.  After the party, after the alcohol started to wear off,
and he realized what he had done, he felt . . . terrible.  Guilty. 
Unmanly and dishonorable.  He felt the only thing he could do was
to leave, to train, that maybe through his martial arts he could
redeem himself.  He left very, very early this morning."
     The Saotome matriarch looked at the younger girl for
several long moments, and then, suddenly, seemed to fall in on
herself.  The anger drained away, the fire in her eyes dimmed, as her
shoulder drooped and she sank down onto the park bench.  "Oh,
my son -- my son," she whispered.  "What has happened to you?"
     After a brief hesitation, Ranko sat next to her.  "Auntie?"
she asked timorously.
     "Is my son's life truly that bad?  Is he really that unhappy?"
     Ranko blinked.  "Huh?"
     "By your own account, he seems a terribly unhappy young
man: lonely, socially insecure, desperate for friendship . . . who
does he turn to in his moments of weakness?  Even a man among
men must tire at times."
     Ranko tried swallowing in a mouth suddenly gone dry.  "I. .
."
     "You seem to know my son well, Ranko.  Do you talk to
him much?  Is he really that unhappy?"
     "I . . . I don't. . ."
     "Does he . . . does he miss his mother?"
     The girl gave one single quick glance up the older woman
and nodded numbly.
     "I see."  And then, "Ranko . . . Ranko, are you crying?"
     The young redhead shook her head violently.  "No!  No, of
course not.  It'd be silly for me to cry, right?"
     "Ranko, it's never silly for a young girl to cry."  She placed
a comforting hand on her protege's shoulder.  "Right?"
     The girl's mouth twisted bitterly.  "Yeah.  Of course.  For a
girl."
     Silence descended once again as both leaned back into the
bench, seemingly lost in their respective thoughts.  Again, it was the
older woman who first broke the quiet.  "Ranko . . . do you love
my son?"
     Ranko started upright.  "What?"
     Mrs. Saotome faced her with the utmost seriousness.  "You
heard me, dear.  Do you love my son?  Are you attracted to him?"
     "I . . . No!  Of course not."  Ranko's red-faced blush was
obvious even in the relative darkness.  "What'd make you ask
somethin' like that?"
     The corner of the elder Saotome's mouth twitched slightly. 
"Come now, Ranko, it would certainly explain a lot: the way you
seem to know him so well, the way you followed him around all
night at the party, the way you seem so anxious to defend him. 
You understand him, I think, you obviously respect him, and it
seems you care greatly for him."
     "Well, er, yeah, sure, Ranma's a great guy and all, but . . .
but, there's Akane, right?  She's his fiancee!"
     "And wouldn't that simply explain the obvious tension
between you and your cousin?  I'm sure that, despite Akane's
protests to the contrary, she feels strongly for my son; and if she
discovered that you harbored those very same feelings, would she
not likely become jealous?"
     Ranko smirked.  "Akane, jealous?  Yeah, I think I could see
that happening."
     The older woman nodded.  "Especially if, as I suspect, he
confides in you more than in her. Is it to you that he turns in his
times of weakness?  Does he reveal his fears and doubts to you? 
He could never do so to his fiancee, I'm sure -- but to you, a friend,
a confidant, might he not let his guard down, even if only briefly? 
Are you his friend, Ranko?  His relief and comfort?"
     "I . . . I never thought of it that way."  She sounded
puzzled.  She looked herself over, as if in wonder.  "Maybe you're
right.  I -- he, he does, ah, admit stuff to me, that he doesn't tell
anyone else."
     "You see?  And the step from friendship to . . . something
else, is not as great as some think.  Especially when the boy is one
as manly and handsome as, by all accounts, my son is."  A mother's
pride had sneaked into her voice, overwhelming much of her earlier
anger.
     Again Ranko blushed.  "Well, Ranma is quite the . . ."  She
gave her head a shake.  "But, no, I swear, Auntie, there's nothing
between us.  I'd never get between Ranma and Akane."  Her
countenance darkened.  "If there was ever anything there."  She
sighed.  "And if there was, it's gone for sure, now."
     "Now, now, dear," reassured the older woman, standing up
and patting her companion's shoulder.  "As bad as things are, there
is always hope.  Now that I have a better idea of what happened, I
think I will have a talk with your cousin.  She is probably quite
upset, and understandably so, but I doubt things are beyond
recovery."
     "You . . . you think so?" asked Ranko softly, standing as
well.
     "Of course."  Mrs. Saotome took a moment to look around. 
Aside for a few other individuals taking late-night strolls, the park
was still and quiet.  "But it is getting quite late.  You have school
tomorrow, dear, so I believe it is time to be heading back."
     Ranko fell in beside the taller woman as they headed off.
     "My son, of course, still needs a serious talking to."
     "Err, yeah."
     "And I am far from done with you, my dear."
     "Ah, me?"
     "There is still the matter of your infatuation with my son."
     "But . . . !"
     "And your unpardonable behavior at the party."
     A guilty silence.
     "And the way you treated your cousin.  Remember, Ranko,
nothing is more important than family.  Not even a boy as manly as
my son.  Next time your cousin needs help, you should be there."
      "Of . . . of course."
     "And there's still the matter of your clothes. . ."
     "Mrs. Saotome?"
     "You still dress like a tomboy.  We'll make a lady of you
yet."
     "Auntie!"


     As Ranma and his mother approached the Tendo residence,
now bantering back and forth on a far more amicable level, a
gradual weight seemed to grow upon him.  Each step seemed
increasingly wearisome and laborious.  The time spent with his
mother had helped, had provided a certain hope; but now he had
returned to the source of his problems.  Did Mr. Tendo know that
the engagement had been canceled yet -- did he know that his son-
in-law had hurt his precious daughter?  And, of course, Akane was
in there. . .
     But, as they approached the front gate of the household, he
spotted a single figure approaching from the opposite direction. 
His steps faltered and his legs seized up as he identified the
individual.  Akane.  He realized he was breathing heavily.
     "It's okay, dear," said his mother softly.  "Relax."
     He noticed that his fiancee -- his ex-fiancee, he reminded
himself -- didn't hesitate in her approach: in fact, he could almost
feel her gaze sweep coldly over and past him with complete
indifference.  He shivered.
     They reached the front gate simultaneously: him and his
mother, and Akane.  A very uncomfortable silence settled between
the three.  Ranma tried to meet Akane's eyes but found himself
unable to: his gaze kept slipping away and finding some fascinating
detail in the road, an errant pebble, the stonework of the wall.
     "Good evening, Akane," said the Saotome matriarch.
     "Good evening, Mrs. Saotome," answered the youngest
Tendo.
     "Did you enjoy your walk?"
     "Yes."
     "Good."
     Ranma felt his mother nudge him.  He took a hesitant step
forward.  "Um, er, hi, Akane."
     "Ranko."
     "How are you, ah . . ."
     "Fine."
     "Did you . . ."
     "It's getting late, Ranko," interrupted Akane.  "We have
school tomorrow.  Don't you think we should be heading in?"
     Ranma slumped his head in defeat.  "Yes."
     "Oh, come now, girls," said his mother.  "It is not that late,
and it is a beautiful night.  You should enjoy it!"  He glanced up at
his mother, amazed that she seemed oblivious to the chill Akane
was radiating.  "Why don't you two stay out here a little longer,
talk, enjoy the fresh air?  I'll go in and make you some hot cocoa."
     "Mrs. Saotome. . . ," attempted Akane.
     "Now, now, dear, don't worry.  It would be my pleasure. 
You two have not seen each other all day, so why not take the time
to catch up?  I'm sure you both have lots to talk about."  The older
woman turned away, smiling brightly, and slipped through the
household gate.  It closed with a firm thud behind her.
     Silence.  They both stared at the large wooden door before
them.
     Ranma had no idea what to say, and so silence reigned
between them.  He thought he could feel Akane's baleful glare
burning into him, but kept his eyes locked steadfastly on the doors. 
Willing them to open didn't seem to be working, but he kept on
trying.  What else could he do?  I just know, he thought, that
anything I say to her is just going to make things worse.  Of course,
he added a moment later, not saying anything probably isn't helping
either.
     Just as the silence was becoming unbearable, Akane spoke:
"Sometimes that woman can be infuriating."  The tone of her voice
was far from being friendly or conversational.
     "Watch it," said Ranma, turning to face her and speaking
with surprising vehemence, "that's my mother you're talking
about."
     "Ah.  So you can talk, after all."
     He flushed.  "Yeah.  Yeah, I can talk."
     "But you don't have anything to say, do you?"
     "I. . ."  He hesitated, then straightened his posture.  He
bowed before her, deeply, from the waist.  He held the position for
a moment before rising.  "I'm sorry, Akane.  I really am."
     "Oh, well, great.  I guess that makes everything alright,
then, huh?"
     "No!  No, but. . ."
     "But what, Ranma?"
     "I. . ."  But what could he say.  The apology had come
easily, the stubbornness that so often intruded gone.  He really was
sorry -- but what difference did it make?  Nothing he could say, or
probably do, would convince her it was honest; and even if she
accepted his apology as genuine, did that change the reality that he
had betrayed her last night?  "Nothing."
     "Exactly."
     He turned away, felt her chilling gaze continue to bore into
his back.  Damn, but this was stupid.  He should just step away,
return to his room.  Talking with Akane tonight wasn't going to
accomplish anything.
     "So . . . how'd you feel this morning?  Now?  Strange?"
     He was surprised by the question: sensing something other
than cold indifference in her voice was almost as unexpected as the
question itself.  "Fine . . . better, I guess.  A little tired.  The
queasiness is gone.  The fresh air helped."
     "So how much did you drink last night?"
     Ranma wasn't sure where she was going with these
questions.  He shrugged.  "I dunno.  I don't really remember.  A
lot.  Too much."  Way too much.
     "What did your mom think?"
     "About the party?  I told her what happened.  She's
extremely displeased with her son.  She wants to have some stern
words with him."
     "Ah.  But he's not around, is he?"
     He looked away as he answered.  "No.  No, he's left on
another training trip."
     "Ah, I see.  It must've been hard packing with a hangover."
     "Akane. . ."
     "And what about 'Ranko'?  Where does she come into all of
this?"
     "She, ah, I . . . I followed Ranma around for most of the
night."
     "Convenient."
     "Er, yeah.  She also thinks I'm in love with my guy-side. 
And, ah, that you're jealous of Ranko and I . . . er, Ranma and I . . .
of the two of us, and that that's why we're not getting along."  He
gave a short forced laugh; it sounded sickly and unnatural.
     Akane answered with a silence that was just long and deep
enough to signal her disapproval of his attempt at humor.  "And
what did she think of your drinking?"
     "She wasn't happy.  She said it was dangerous, and
unladylike behavior."
     Akane snorted.  "No kidding.  What was it that Sayuri
called you?  Bitch?  Slut?"
     His face darkened.  "Akane. . ."
     "She told me a lot of things tonight.  You had a really good
time after I left, didn't you?"
     "Akane, no-."  A memory surfaced: bumping into Sayuri in
the swimming pool, an exchange of words.  "Listen, Sayuri and I
don't get along; I don't think she likes me. . ."
     "Ah.  So now you're calling my friend a liar?"
     "No!"  Why do I bother, he thought.  I should just shut up.
     "So you did have a good time after I left.  Enjoy swimming
with the guys?  Hey, get any compliments on my bikini?"
     "Akane, no, listen. . ."
     "I'm glad you had a good time.  See, I was wandering the
streets, crying.  After all, my fiancee had just hurt me, called me a
bitch in front of all my friends . . . my engagement was over, and. .
."
     "Dammit, Akane, waddya want me to say!" yelled Ranma. 
"Eh?  I'm sorry?  I'll say it as often as I have to: I.  Am.  Sorry!" 
He advanced on her, punctuating his words with wild gesticulations
of the arms.  "What do I have to do?  Bow?  Get down on my
knees?  Huh?"  He stood mere feet from her, his words echoing
through the street.  "What.  Do.  You.  Want?"
     Her level gaze cut straight through his desperate frustration. 
"What are you going to do, Ranma?  Hit me?"
     He flinched as if physically slapped.  "Akane. . ."
     No answer.
     "Can't . . . can't we ever be friends again?"
     It was an eerie echo of the night before; he could almost
here her whispered plea: 'Aren't I your friend too,' and recalled his
response: a silent, steady stare.  Now it was her turn.
     A long, deliberate pause.  And then, "What makes you think
we ever were?"
     He turned away, emotionless, hollow.  He knew he could
expect no better, yet nevertheless felt stunned by her indifferent
response.  There was nothing for him here: no hope, no chance of
redemption.  He might as well make the lie to his mother a reality:
grab his father and leave on another training voyage -- a permanent
one.  As he trudged away with steps that felt surprisingly heavy
towards the house, he realized that there would never now be a
joining of the Saotome and Tendo family lines.


     Even before the gate doors had closed behind Ranma,
Akane felt her self-control slip and the tears escape.  
     "Ranma," she whispered, but of course it was too late, he
was gone.  Not that she wanted to forgive him -- she was still far
too angry with him for that.  His words and actions of the previous
night had stung her deeply; how deeply, she was just beginning to
realize.  But she had never intended to lash out at him the way she
just had . . . not so callously, viciously.
     And yet . . . had she not taken a certain pleasure in seeing
her barbs strike home, twist deep?  To see him blanch, to watch the
life seep from his face.  Perhaps, now, he had an idea of how she
had felt . . . still felt, when she let her guard down.
     But then why, now, did she feel so terrible?
     "Akane, are you coming in?  Did you and Ranko . . . oh,
my, Akane dear, are you alright?"  She heard Nodoka approach
her, but twisted out of her imminent embrace, hiding her tears. 
"Akane?"
     "I'm fine, Mrs. Saotome.  Really."
     "Akane.  Please.  I'm only trying to help."
     "I . . . I know.  I just don't feel like talking about it yet."
     "If it is about you and Ranko. . ."
     The Tendo daughter gave a bitter laugh.  "Believe me, it has
nothing to do with me and my 'cousin'."
     "And Ranma?"
     Akane spun on the Saotome elder.  "And it's not about your
stupid son, either!" she screamed. "Why does everything always
have to revolve around Ranma!  Always Ranma!  This isn't about
him -- it's about me!"  She took a deep breath, forced her voice
down to a more neutral level.  Yelling at Ranma's mother wouldn't
solve anything.
     "Akane, I don't understand. . ."
     "And neither do I, really.  I've been thinking about it all
night -- but there's so many things swirling through my head, all
these thoughts and feeling and things I just don't want to deal with .
. . things I can't deal with, not right now.  It's too much, too soon. 
I'm too tired."  She gave a pleading look at Nodoka.  "Please.  I
understand you want to help me.  Really.  But not tonight.  Help
Ranko, if anyone.  I said some mean things to her, things I didn't
entirely want to say.  I'm okay, really.  I'm just . . . tired."  Sick and
tired.  Of everything.  Of the way things are.
     Mrs. Saotome looked uncertain, but eventually turned
away.  "If you're positive, Akane dear.  Everyone's already retired
to their rooms for the night -- but if you need anyone to talk to . . .
please, come to me."
     "I will, Auntie."
     "Good."
     "And Auntie. . ."
     "Yes?"
     "Please . . . please don't tell my father what's happened. 
Not yet."  She wasn't too sure why she didn't want her father to
know, but she did know that, if he was to find out, she wanted it to
come from her.
     Nodoka frowned, but nodded.  "I had not decided whether
to tell Soun yet or not.  The poor man might not take it very well. 
I'll wait . . . for now.  Maybe I won't have to -- maybe things will
get better. . ."
     Not likely.  "Thank you."
     "Goodnight."
     Nodoka slipped back through the gate.  Akane took a few
more moments to stare up at the night sky.  It was cloudy and the
stars were obscured overhead.  "Oh Ranma," she whispered,
"what's going on?"  There was no answer, nor had she expected
one.  Shaking her head, she followed after Mrs. Saotome.
     The door to the household closed behind her with a
resounding thud.


     He lay there in  the dark, hovering suspended between
dream and wakefulness, the breathing of his mother an ephemeral
sighing on the edge of consciousness.  Sharing a room with her
always made Ranma anxious as he drifted towards sleep: what if he
awoke a man, still softly encased in the nightgown she had insisted
he wear.  Why did the lack of his father's deep rumbling snores --
whether a panda or human in sleep -- make his sleep that much
more uneasy?  Or was it the constant fleeting recollection of the
day's and the previous night's events that unsettled his rest so?
     Normally Ranma welcomed sleep -- actively yearned for it,
in fact.  There had been periods of time in his life when he had seen
precious little of it . . . little enough so that, when sleep was
available, he took full advantage of the opportunity.  Like a good
meal, you never know when you might have to go without.  It was
his earnest opinion that one ought to stock up on a good thing
whenever possible: it might not be around for long.  The main
attraction of sleep, however, was that it normally offered an escape
from the chaos and headaches of life: in sleep, calming silence and
soothing velvet enveloped him and kept jealous fiancees and
wrathful rivals at a safe, non-threatening distance.  Sleep was peace
for Ranma Saotome, and no matter how brief, peace was always
gleefully embraced.  He saw precious little of it.
     Tonight, however, suspended semi-conscious and semi-
aware, proper sleep eluded him as his mind roiled and dredged up
seemingly unfamiliar memories:
     Pale girl with dark hair, deep and painful sobbing, words of
importance spoken but now flitting dimly just beyond recollection;
     Darkness.  Lurching vertiginous momentum.  A solitary
click; a face made unfamiliar by shadow and alien expression.  And.
. .
     Ranma started; his body jerked, spasmodic unconscious
firing of nerves jarring him awake.  Dream-state remembrances
flared once in his mind before fading.  A moment later he fell back
onto his futon with a sigh, wondering what had awakened him. 
What a day, he faintly thought, as he shifted to one side and tried to
relaxed suddenly taut muscles.  Akane hates me, my mother is
disappointed with me, I've betrayed those who took me in.  I hope
that tomorrow . . .  tomorrow. . .  In mid, semi-coherent thought,
he faded into a sleep that was both deep and devoid of troublesome
doubts and worrisome dreams.


***  ***  ***
***  ***  ***


     As Ranma Saotome walked to school on Monday morning,
enough things had already gone awry since waking up for him to
know that, even by his standards, this was likely to be a very bad
day.  He scowled at the sun shining brightly overhead and wished
for the day, if not the week, to end quickly and painlessly.  He
snorted.  When did an entire week ever pass by without varying
degrees of pain being inflicted upon his self?  Whether from his
father, or a rival, or Akane. . .
     No, not Akane, not any longer, he thought, and sighed. 
Bitterness sank into depression as he continued his path along the
canal.  Breakfast had proven chilling: everything appeared relatively
normal -- Mr. Tendo with newspaper, Pop as a panda eating scraps,
Kasumi and Mom in the kitchen, Akane sitting next to him at the
table -- but his ex-fiancee had made it abundantly clear that she
wanted nothing to do with him:
     "So, ummm, Akane, how did you do on that, ah, History
question," he had asked.  The question was lame, but it was the first
thing that came to mind.  "You know, the one about. . ."
     She had turned and leveled a withering glare at him.  "I
didn't do it.  I had too many other things on my mind, for some
reason," she had answered.  "Although I'm glad you obviously
weren't distracted by anything."  She had then turned back to
methodically eating her meal.  So he had returned to his own food,
and a few moments later, breakfast not done, Akane had stood up
and left for school, early and on her own.
     Nabiki, too, had left early, which meant that he was walking
alone as well.  It was probably better that he was, considering the
mood he was in by the time he left the Tendo residence.  He didn't
much feel like talking to anyone, anyway.  He'd been talking plenty
in the last few days, thank-you-very-much.  What I need right now,
he decided, is a good fight.  Burn off some of this frustration. 
Where's the good 'ole Puzzled Porker when ya need him?
     He noted the old woman washing the sidewalk as he made
his way along the road.  How many times had she splashed him on
the way to school?  Didn't really matter this morning, though.  He
was already female, and dressed in a Furikan girl's school uniform
to boot.  I love my mother and all, he told himself, but dammit!,
could she ever be insistent:
     "You don't think you're going to school dressed like that,
do you, young lady?"
     Ranma, who had been in the middle of dressing -- black
pants and scarlet shirt, per usual -- had stopped with a sinking
feeling in his stomach.  "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
     His mother's frown had been quite intimidating.  "That is
not a proper school uniform, Ranko."
     "Yeah, but the principal don't really care!"
     "And it's terribly unfeminine!"
     "Auntie, please, don't start. . ."
     "Of course, it's probably just another indication of your
infatuation with my son.  But really, Ranko, wearing his clothes? 
Comes from a lack of proper female guidance, I'm sure.  Well,
while I'm here, I'll see to it that you. . ."
     Ranma had simply sighed, tuned her out, and started
changing.
     Fortunately, he had been able to catch Nabiki just before she
left, and convince her to bring a spare set of clothes to school for
him.  For a price, of course, but at least he would be able to change
back to a guy once out of the house.  The mere thought helped to
alleviate his low spirits: after being female for so long, he was
itching to return to his real gender . . . and get out of these stupid
clothes.  Hopefully he would be able to track Nabiki down quickly
and change before too many people saw him: he had been seen at
school in woman's clothing before (in both female and male form,
much to his embarrassment ), but it still wasn't something he
particularly enjoyed.  At least he had been able to get out of
wearing female undergarments -- his mother had been satisfied with
just the uniform.
     Approaching the front gates of the school, he saw with
satisfaction that he still had plenty of time before first bell.  Loads
of time to get to class, providing. . .
     "Lo!  My beauty in pigtails approaches!  And adorned in
such proper, beauteous raiment!"
     Ranma sighed.  He really had to get out of these stupid
clothes.


     "Thank you, Anami," said Nabiki, dismissing her informant. 
That was the third recounting of what had happened at Kiyoshi's
party (each slightly different, but consistent enough on the
important details to be reliable), and with each version her anger
grew and her patience with Saotome dwindled.  Oh, but would he
pay, she decided, for treating my sister that way.  Would he ever
pay.
     She looked down at the bundle of clothing Ranma had given
her this morning, and smiled grimly.  If he enjoyed being female at
the party so much, why deny him the pleasure of staying that way a
little longer?  Settling back comfortably into her desk,
contemplating appropriate tortures, Nabiki pulled out a pair of
scissors and began to enjoy herself immensely.


     "Kuno, get offa me!  We're gonna be late for class!"
     A solid boot to the head provided the incentive Kuno
needed to let Ranma go.  The kendoist recovered quickly, though,
and fell in next to his red-haired love as they crossed the distance
from the front gate to the school.  Ranma soon noticed that, instead
of harassing him as usual, the taller man kept a watchful eye,
imperiously casting his gaze about the schoolyard.  His bokken was
held low but ready.  After a few steps with him hovering about,
Ranma's patience dwindled.
     "Kuno, what the hell are you doing?"
     "Guarding your virtue."
     "Ah."  A moment later, "Why?"
     "The vile cretins who populate this school have been
spreading lascivious lies about you, my dear.  I have already
punished a number of them on your behalf.  Let them attempt
another slander!  They shall taste my. . ."
     Ranma halted and pulled the ranting kendoist back. 
"They've been _what_?"
     "Making lewd suggestions against your honor."
     "Insulting me?"
     "Far worse, pigtailed one, far worse: some have even
insinuated you may be a woman of loose morals!  But I believe not
a word. . ."
     He yanked Kuno down to his eye level, fingers fiercely
curling into the taller man's collar.  "They've been calling me a
_slut_?" he hissed.
      Surprised, but undaunted, Kuno nodded.
     "Who?"
     "I cannot be expected to remember the names of all the
scum that slink about the schoolyard, pigtailed one.  But fear not, I
reprimanded them properly."
     For a moment Ranma felt woozy, sick.  It wasn't supposed
to be like this: he was supposed to be popular, they were his friends
now, he'd partied and had a good time with them and opened up to
them!  They were his friends, dammit, they had to be, otherwise --
otherwise, he had lost Akane for nothing.  And he wasn't sure he
could deal with that, not now.  "What else," he asked, and was
surprised at how soft his own voice sounded.
     "Pigtai. . ."
     "Did they say, Kuno?"
     "Ah.  Some said you were a drunkard, drinking wildly
without restraint."  Ranma winced.  "Others suggested you were
violent, a 'bully' -- obviously, they do not appreciate your vibrant
personality as I do.  One girl unfairly called you flirtatious and
wanton, exposing your. . . your assets and bounteous beauty for all
and sundry to see!  But I believe not a word of it, not one!"
     Ranma absently noticed the slight trail of drool escaping
from the corner of Kuno's mouth.  Were they saying such things
about him?  But why?  I didn't 'expose' anything last night, he told
himself, I didn't flirt with nobody.  Except for Hiroshi, right?  He
remembered and suddenly felt ashamed.  But that was in fun, I
wasn't being serious, I was joking and a bit drunk, and beside, no
one knows or saw. . .  Except for Hiroshi.  But he wouldn't tell. 
He promised.
     "And then one evil cur said . . . he said that . . . no, it is
beyond telling!"
     He tuned back in to the flustered kendoist standing next to
him.  "What?"
     "This man, he said -- it is a lie, of course, it must be! -- he
said that you were found. . ."
     "Found?"
     "Naked!  Your beauty unveiled!  Your skin exposed, curves
sultry in the dark, your breasts. . ."  Seeing the frenzied look to
Kuni's eyes, the froth at the lips, Ranma took a hesitant step back. 
"Say it isn't so, pigtailed girl!  Have your virgin treasures been
despoiled by heathen eyes?  Say it isn't. . ."
     Anticipating the lunge, the shorter girl was ready when he
leapt forward to embrace her.  A swift, solid elbow -- perhaps a tad
more vicious than was strictly necessary -- to the side of Kuno's
head put him down for the count.  He collapsed, eyes open and
swirling.
     "You don't have to sound so friggin' jealous, you pervert,"
muttered Ranma, and resumed his walk toward the school.  Aw,
sheesh, he decided, I was worried about nothing.  I shoulda known
better than to trust anything Kuno says.  He always exaggerates
everything.


     Despite the troubles with Tatewaki, Ranma nevertheless
managed to arrive a few minutes ahead of the final bell.  He felt a
moment's trepidation before stepping into class: acutely aware of
the blue skirt swaying loosely about his legs, knowing Akane was in
there, still haunted with vague concerns over Kuno's warning,
Ranma had little desire to begin school today.  But he could delay
for only so long.  Taking a steadying breath, he opened the door.
     Did conversations halt momentarily upon his arrival, only to
resume in quieter tones?  It certainly seemed that everyone cast
surreptitious glances his way as he moved toward his desk.  He
gave a quick look for Akane; seeing her, he considered going to
her; but a subtle shifting of her posture, a slight turning of her back
his way was enough to convince him otherwise.  Instead, he sought
out Hiroshi and Daisuke.  He decided to join the group of guys they
were clustered with over by the window.
     "Hey, Red, what's happening?" called one guy, Tanaka.  A
subdued snicker passed through the class.
     It took a moment for Ranma to realize that he was being
addressed.  "Me?"  Receiving a nod, he shrugged.  "Fine, I guess." 
What's up with name, he wondered.  Red?  Because of my girl-
body's hair?  But they've never called me that before. . .  When he
joined up with Hiroshi's gang, he was greeted with a chorus of
"Hiya Red" and laughter.  Noticing the uncomprehending blank
response, someone added, "It's a nickname, man.  Relax!"  A
nickname?  I've never had a nickname before, thought Ranma, 
well, except for Ranchan, but that's not the same thing.  He wasn't
sure whether he was pleased or not -- but it certainly seemed to
confirm his belief that Kuno's dire predictions were full of their
usual exaggeration.  Taking a deep breath, he tried to let some of
the nervousness he felt bleed away.
     Then the door opened, and a bundle of yellow-clad energy
vibrated itself into the room: Ms. Hinako.  "We have a lot to cover
today," she said, "so get to your seats, quickly!"  Everyone rapidly
started to migrate back to their seats in preparation for the
beginning of the school day.  Before taking a step, Ranma felt a tug
on the sleeve of his blouse.
     "Ranma, is everything okay?"  It was Daisuke, sounding
genuinely concerned.
     He shrugged.  "Yeah, I guess so.  Why?"
     Hiroshi gestured vaguely towards the girl.  "Well -- you
know.  You're a girl."
     "No shit.  Been this way all weekend."
     "What," exclaimed Daisuke, with Hiroshi supplying the
"Why?"
     "It's 'cus--," he started, and then, sensing Ms. Hinako's ire
focusing on him and his friends, decided that the _last_ thing he
needed today was another struggle with the overly-eager chi-
draining disciplinarian.  "I'll tell ya later, 'kay?"
     He dashed over to his desk before Hinako had a chance to
say anything.  He even remembered to smooth down the back of his
skirt as he sat down, and then felt a singular embarrassment
realizing that he had done so without conscious effort.  I love my
mom, he thought, and sighed, but she's gotta go.  If I hafta stay in
this girl body much longer, I'm gonna crack.  His only consolation
was that, contrary to Kuno's threats, everything seemed relatively
normal.


     It was breaktime between classes, and before Ranma could
step away to find Nabiki and retrieve his clothes, Hiroshi pulled him
aside to explain something.
     "I don't understand. . ."
     Hiroshi looked caught between fear and concern.  "I don't
know who started it, but -- well, didn't you wonder what they were
getting at this morning?"
     Ranma shrugged.  "I just figured it had something to do
with my hair."  He fingered his pigtail.  "I mean, there aren't that
many redheads on campus, so. . ."
     The blond-haired boy shook his head.  "No Ranma; well,
not quite."
     "Whaddya mean?  It's just a nickname, right?  I thought it
was kinda, I dunno, cool."
     "Trust me, it's not.  The guys are being assholes."
     "I don't. . ."
     Hiroshi sighed.  "Listen, Ranma, do you remember what
happened Saturday night?"
     "At the party?  With Akane?"
          "No.  After that."
     "It's -- well, it's kinda fuzzy."
     "Sayuri and I saw you, once, near the end of the night.  You
were pretty wasted, and looking for a bathroom.  Ring any bells?"
     Another shrug.  "Not really."  Vague echo: girl, long black
hair; mirror; some guy throwing up.  "Maybe a little."
     "Well. . . I didn't see it myself, but some guys found you."
     "Found me?"
     "Yeah.  Passed out on the bathroom floor."
     Ranma felt his face burn read.  "Oh shit.  I guess I kinda
overdid it that night."
     "Yeah Ranma, just a bit."
     "But what does that have to do with my nickname?"  This
time it was Hiroshi who flushed.  Noticing his fidgeting, the
pigtailed girl felt an uneasy sensation settle into his stomach. 
"Hiroshi?"
     "It's -- well, you see. . . When those guys found you, you
were, well. . . naked.  You must have been going for a crap or
something, and just fell off the toilet.  So when they found you,
your, you know, your bottom was down.  This morning word
spread quickly that you were a, you know, natural redhead."
     "I don't get. . . 'natural redhead'?"
     "Your hair down there, Ranma," and Hiroshi pointed at the
girl's crotch, "is the same as your hair up there. _That's what
they're referring to when they call you 'Red'."  He took a deep
breath.  "I'm sorry, Ranma.  I don't know what to say.  Some of
the guys can be real jerks -- I guess you already knew that -- but I
didn't think. . ."
     The swelling pounding in Ranma ears deafened him to
Hiroshi's words.  He leaned heavily against the lockers behind him. 
It was hot, suddenly sweltering, breathing labored and school
uniform stifling.  He closed his eyes against the mass of students
surging past him, veiled smiles, smirks, hard glinting eyes and sly
whispers; he closed his eyes against the redness suffusing his vision,
fierce anger and fiercer self-loathing threatening to overwhelm him. 
Deep breath.  Control.
     'I was going to tell them that it wasn't cool, calling you
that, but, well, you know, I couldn't. . .'
     Hiroshi's voice seemed far away, but discernible as the
hammering in his head lessened.  I shouldn't be this angry, Ranma
told himself.  It's not the first time I've been insulted.  Ryoga and
Mousse do it all the time.  Taro.  Happosai.  Pop.  Even. . . Akane. 
And it's never been that big of a deal.  It's never hit this hard
before.
     (But he knew that wasn't entirely true.  The first time
Akane called him 'pervert,' he remembered, it had hurt, stung him
deeply, akin to the pain of today if not matching its intensity. 
Habituation had eased the bitterness of the word; would being
called 'Red', one day, no longer arouse these feelings of betrayal
and shame?  Briefly he wondered if, each time he taunted Ryoga
with 'P-chan', his rival felt the same lacerating rage.)
     'Just don't take it too. . . Ranma?'
     He would bear it, like he had born the many other affronts
in his life.  Rivals, parents, teachers, fiancees, friends, and the
ultimate insult, the curse: he could carry them without complaint. 
He was a man, outwards appearance notwithstanding, and he would
bear this new insult like one.  Everyone in the school had thought
him a pervert at one time or another -- the original Ms. Hinako
debacle came to mind -- but in the end he had succeeded.  He was
Ranma Saotome, and Ranma Saotome _always_ won, in the end.
     'Ranma?'
     If only he knew what he was fighting for, here.
     "Hey, Ranma!"
     "Yeah?"
     "Are you. . . so, ah, you're. . . okay with this?"
     "Yeah.  Sure.  It's only a joke, right?"
     "Oh.  Ah, good."  A heavy pause.  "So then, weren't you
gonna say why you're wearing that getup?  And been a girl all
weekend?"
     Ranma smiled, and if the smile seemed hard and sharp, and
fell far short of his smoldering eyes, Hiroshi did a good job of
neither commenting upon it nor flinching.  "Sure.  It's a long story. 
It has to do with my mom, you see. . ."
     

     Ranma did not have time to finish his story before the break
ended, and realized belatedly that he would now have to wait until
lunch to retrieve his male clothing from Nabiki.  An incident before
returning to class helped him realize that, despite his efforts and
tight restraint, he was still very, very angry:
     "I don't get it.  Your dad signed a contract for you?"
     "Yeah.  A sort of suicide pact."
     "But you were, like, only four!"
     "Pop's a few bamboo stalks short of a full. . ."
     "Hey, 'Roshi; hey, Red -- time t'get back to class," intruded
a male classmate.
     The superficial calm Ranma had lulled himself into through
talking shattered.  That single word, 'red', conjured up numerous
intense and conflicting emotions: hot rage, embarrassment, the
mental image of himself lying naked and unconscious surrounded by
gawking and pointing boys.  Briefly he imagined grabbing the boy
by the neck and slamming him up against the locker, but he knew
that he could not.  His classmates were not martial artists.  And by
the time Ranma took a deep, steadying breath, the boy was gone,
anyway.  His anger slowly ebbed.
     And now, sitting in class, half-oblivious to Hinako's
incessant droning, he could still feel that heat lurking within; in a
way, it felt more reassuring than the constant depression and
hollowness he had felt since confronting Akane last night before the
gates to the Tendo household.  A quick glance revealed his ex-
fiancee intensely focused upon the teacher.  Out of the corner of his
eye he could see Hiroshi and Daisuke passing notes back and forth:
Daisuke had wanted to know the full story of why Ranma was still
a girl, but missed out on it during the break; apparently he was now
being filled in.  Seeing the slip of paper quickly exchanged gave
Ranma an idea.
     Pulling out a page from his notebook, he quickly jotted
down a message: 'We need to talk.  Please?  At lunch, by the tree? 
- Ranma.'  Folding it in half, he wrote Akane's name on it, then
quickly passed it backwards when the teacher wasn't looking.  He
then concentrated on Ms. Hinako, in the misplaced hope that his
attention to her teachings might draw hers away from the letter.
     "So we can see," she was saying, gesticulating wildly at the
scribble-covered blackboard, "how the text works on multiple
layers of discourse.  The wild dogs are, of course, an expression of
authorial rage (known, of course, in literary circles as the 'Harnum
effect') and an incarnation of the _Hortus conclusus_'s naturalistic
lashing out as the protagonists invade this sheltered domain.  The
odd spectral anomaly which defies categorization and definition is
the ineffable anthropomorphized; it is our two characters' ultimate
inability to understand this projection of the island's essential
characteristics that forces them to flee.  Their hedonistic lifestyle
when removed from the tight constraints of their previous econo-
social framework -- rendering them akin to childlike Kurtz' on a
smoother moralistic landscape --- indicate that innocence remains
corrupt and the Prelapsarian state lies perpetually beyond their
grasp: for them, paradise can not be regained, though hope remains
in the form of their unexpected, and uniquely conceived, child.  For,
though denied them, the island is obviously the original _hortus
conclusus_, the primal Eden despite its shadowy undercutting.  The
text is aptly named, then, as Bli-."
     Ranma desperately stifled a yawn.  He remembered why he
rarely listened to Ms. Hinako teach literature.  Yet a quick glance
revealed that his letter had yet to reach Akane.  Why was it taking
so long?
     "There remains, of course, aspects of the text that still
require unravelling.  What are we to make, for instance, of the first
character's obviously gendered construct?  Is she integrated Anima,
or something other?  As Anima, she is well suited to our second
protagonist, especially when we consider his predilection for the
stick -- obviously, an overt phallic reference suggesting virility but
potentially violent and disruptive sexual desires (and one must recall
that, though symbolic of hope, the newborn child was delivered
amidst violence and portentous suggestions of innate wrongness;
the child, therefore, functions as a condensed synthesis of the
discordant tensions between these sexual extremes).  The spatial
dichotomies also give credence to this type of gendered reading: the
low-ground waterfall region indicative of the female sphere -- one
must recall her fondness for fishing, the raft, and water in general --
as compared to the raised areas of male-dominance: the sole
mountain, the phallic flint-column, the raised abode.  The archetypal
imagery is noticeably vivid, emphasized, and recurring.  Which begs
the question. . ."
     A tickling on the back of his neck snapped him out of his
near-comatose state.  Without looking, he reached back and
snagged the letter.  He wondered what Akane had to say. 
Somehow, he doubted she would want to talk to him.  Too bad, he
decided.  He wasn't sure when the determination had come upon
him to confront her, but he knew it couldn't just end like this:
whether he stayed or left, the Tendo's kicked him out or not,
Akane forgave him or not, things would be made clear.  If ever,
now was the time for honesty.
     If only he knew what he felt, wanted to say, wanted.
     Glancing down at the note, he immediately realized that
something was wrong.  It was covered in writing, but in a dozen
different scripts: and not one of them was Akane's.  A dozen
responses, all in obviously female hands, but somehow the message
had clearly never made it to his fiancee.  His ex-fiancee.
     "Jerk.  Spaz.  Pervert.  If _I_ had a boyfriend like you, I'd a
kicked you out months ago!"
     "Loser, you should be ashamed of yourself."
     "Stay away from my boyfriend, you flirt!"
     "You're ugly."
     "Is it that time of the month, or are you always like this?"
     "Big bully!  Guys like you should be castrated.  Oh, wait,
you already have been."
     And finally, one that stood out, if only because it bore the
author's signature:
     "Don't you think you've already done enough?  Leave her
alone.  Bitch.  Sayuri."
     His hand clenched convulsively, crumpling the note.  Why
were they saying these things?  First the guys turned his curse into a
joke, made his shame into a name and presented it for everyone to
know; and now the girls insulted and mocked him.  Two nights ago
they had all been his friends, offering drinks freely, talking and
joking, swimming and including him into their company.  And now
it felt to Ranma that they were all excluding him, again; and having
tasted, if only briefly, the easy pleasure of being part of the group,
this return to being an outsider was more painful than ever before. 
He had overheard them all, many a time before, insult and curse
him.  You're a showoff, Ranma.  Casanova.  Jerk.  Bully.  You're
too violent, insensitive.  Stop stealing our girls; stop stealing our
guys.  Why'd you do that, it's your fault it's broken, it's your fault
the school's always falling apart.  Never a thanks: for stopping the
principal, Kuno, a bully; or for saving student and school alike from
any of a dozen lunatics passing through Nerima.  Not once had he
ever touched or harmed a fellow student -- after all, they weren't
martial artists -- but this is how they treat him?
     A sudden intense desire to simply stand up and leave
gripped him, and he wondered, why shouldn't I?  What do I gain by
staying here, what do I care what these idiots think?  The Tendo's
is no longer my home, therefore neither is Nerima nor Furinken. 
He felt the tenseness grow within, muscles taut, sudden possibility
of easy freedom singing to his soul, and he lifted unconsciously ever
so slightly out of his seat.
     Why stay?  These people offered him nothing: friendship,
wisdom, respect, care, lo-.
     "The answer is forty-two, Ms. Hinako."
     "Correct, Akane.  Glad to see you were paying attention."
     The tenseness suddenly drained from his body and he fell
back into his seat with a sigh.  The crumpled note fell from listless
hands and tumbled to the ground.   


     Lunch arrived and, as quickly as circumstances would
allow, Ranma flew from his classroom up to Nabiki's; but upon
arriving there, found that she had already left, and was thus denied
access to his male clothing.  Instead, an all too-pleased Kuno
greeted him with an overly-enthused caress, which a solid throw
into a wall of lockers put to a quick end.  Disgruntled and
grumbling over the necessity at remaining female even longer, the
pig-tailed girl returned to his locker to get lunch, only to remember
that, in the morning's haste, he had forgotten it at the Tendo's.  It
was all he could do to refrain from tearing his locker door off its
hinges out of frustration.
     "Hey, sugar, you okay?"
     He turned as Ukyou approached.  She was dressed in her
usual male school uniform, bandoleer of mini-spatulas draped
across her chest and main weapon hefted over one shoulder,
schoolbag slung over the other.
     "Hey, Ucchan.  Yeah, I guess so."
     "That's a new look for you, ne?"
     Coloring slightly, he glanced down at the blue Furinken
uniform.  "Long story.  Not my choice, trust me.  I'm stuck like this
for a bit."
     "Dark magic?  Evil demon?  Vengeful enemy?"
     "Nah, just Nabiki."
     Ucchan smirked, and gave him a consoling pat on the
shoulder.  "Even worse."
     He smiled and found, despite himself, his mood lifting. 
Considering how everyone seemed to be treating him this morning,
a few moments with a genuine friend was a comforting relief.
     He followed Ukyou to her locker, waited as she unloaded
her bandoleer and textbooks, then eagerly accepted the offer of
lunch.  As they headed outside, Ranma could not help but notice
the many and varied looks and comments sent his way.  Lewd
winks, hostile glares, shouted 'Red!'s, half-whispered insults.  He
tried to ignore them all and focused on leaving the building without
hitting anyone or anything.  Once out on the field behind the school,
the okonomiyaki chef pulled out her portable griddle and
ingredients, and started whipping up some batter as the grill heated. 
Without looking away from her preparations, she suddenly asked,
"Ranchan, what the hell is going on?"
     "Huh?"
     "With those jerks back at the school."
     "You don't know?  I'm surprised, it's all anyone's talkin'
about."
     "Hey, sugar, don't forget I've been at work all morning.  I
just got here.  And I don't listen to what half those bimbos hafta
say, anyway.  Especially when it concerns my Ranma-honey."
     Hearing someone come to his defense was heartening,
although he wondered what, exactly, those 'bimbos' were saying
about him that he wasn't aware of.
     "So what're they saying this time?"
      "Aw, the usual, you know?"  Then he sighed.  "No, not the
usual.  I dunno.  It has ta do with this weekend."
     "Kiyoshi's party?"
     "Yeah."  He paused, then it struck him for the first time that
he had not seen Ukyou that night.  "Hey, why didn't you come,
anyway?"
     A tremor of subdued disappointment underscored her
answer.  "I couldn't get away from work -- and, well, I guess
Kiyoshi forgot to invite me."
     "He didn't invite me either, I just kinda tagged along with
Akane."
     Ukyou poured a droplet of batter onto a coin-shaped puddle
of oil, watched it briefly skip and sizzle.  "Yeah.  I would've gone
too if someone had asked me."
     "Oh."
     He looked off into the distance, suddenly feeling
uncomfortable.  Some guys were playing baseball, other throwing a
football around.  Guys and girls were idly drifting in small pockets,
talking, laughing, incomprehensible snippets of phrases and giggles
drifting to him on the wind.  He wondered where Akane was.  The
smell of cooking okonomiyaki drew his attention back, and Ranma
realized that Ukyou was probably still waiting to hear what had
happened over the weekend.  With some hesitance, he started to
explain.
     Ukyou interrupted him as she slid his meal onto a plate. 
"Whoa there, sugar!  Uehara did _what_?"
     "Threw his drink at me.  Then started making fun of my
girl-side."
     She let out a low whistle.  "Not too bright.  What didja do?"
     He shrugged.  "Beat the shit outta him."
     "Ouch."
     "Yeah.  Last I saw of him that night.  But I shouldn't a done
it.  He was a bully -- not a martial artist.  I should've kept my cool."
     "But-."
     "No."  He punctuated his negative by stabbing a piece of
shrimp with his fork.  "No 'but's.  It was too easy.  And I'd
promised Akane I wouldn't get into any fights that night."
     "Is that why she's not around?  She pissed off?"
     Ranma gave a mirthless laugh.  "I wish.  I wish she was
pissed off."
     She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.  "What
happened?"
     His gaze dropped.  "We fought.  Big time.  And she killed
the engagement.  For real, this time."  Ranma shook his head.  "It's
really bad.  I think the Tendos are gonna throw me out, and really, I
can't blame 'em.  I don't know what to do, Ucchan."
     After a brief pause in which she failed to respond, he looked
up.  Something about the sudden predatory glint that glimmered in
Ukyou's eyes frightened him.  She sidled over next to him, leaning
in close.  Her hands found his and held them in what was, he
assumed, supposed to be a supportive gesture.  It made him
nervous.
     "Don't worry about a thing, Ranchan.  Your cute fiancee
will take care of everything: when you get -- I mean, _if_ you get
kicked out -- we wouldn't want _that_ to happen, of course, but,
let's face it, sugar, when dealing with the Tendos, you never know
_what_ to expect -- you can come stay with _me_!"
     "But-."
     She silenced him with a finger placed firmly (a little _too_
firmly, he thought) against his lips.
     "I know what you're going to say.  Don't worry, it's not a
problem, really!  And if you're worried about the money. . . don't
be!  You can work at the _Ucchan_ during your free time, I've
heard you make one hell of a waitress."
     "Hey, waita. . ."
     "Oh, this is just so exciting!"  She was almost bouncing up
and down with glee.  "We'll have to figure out what to do with
your sack-of-lard father, of course.  Maybe a kiddie-ride?  We can
set up a. . ."
     "Er, yeah.  Hold that thought."  He jumped to his feet,
catching a sudden glimpse of Nabiki off in the distance.  "I, ah. . .
gotta go."  Without waiting for an answer, he sprinted away. 
Crossing the field, he asked himself, what was I thinking, telling her
that?  I keep forgetting: Ucchan's not a friend.  She's a fiancee.


     Dealing with Nabiki, Ranma mused, was somewhat akin to
dealing with a cat: though small and relatively harmless looking, her
outward appearance belied the terrifying and formidable foe that
lurked behind the facade; and just like a cat, she was as prone to
simply toy with her plaything -- claws retracted and playfully
boxing to relieve boredom -- as she was to shred her prey once her
ire was raised.  And like most encounters he had endured with
felines, he more often than not came away from Nabiki feeling both
drained and humiliated.  The difference, of course, was that at least
cats usually left his wallet unharmed; not so the middle Tendo
daughter.  Shivering unconsciously, he tried to banish the persistent
image of a languorously stretching Nabiki dressed in a cat-suit from
his mind.
     Approaching her and the accompanying circle of friends, he
couldn't help but feel he was entering into what would be a very
difficult and costly battle.  He suddenly wondered if, like everyone
else, she had heard of what transpired at Kiyoshi's party two nights
ago.
     One glance at her and Ranma understood that Nabiki knew. 
She was angry.  Normally she kept careful control of her emotions,
but as she took note of his approach clear an unmistakable anger
swept across her features, washing aside the casual pleasure she
seemed to enjoy with the other girls.  But whereas they cast hot,
hostile looks his way, Nabiki's anger was cold: it simmered beneath
narrowed eyes and betrayed itself through a clenched fist, her
stiffened back.  The girls he ignored with ease; Nabiki's unwavering
diffident gaze chilled him.  Steeling himself, he walked up to her. 
Again he railed against the shortness the curse imposed upon him
when in his female body: it was hard to feel confident when all the
girls, Nabiki included, seemed to tower overhead.
     "Nabiki," he started, but was cut off as one of her lackeys --
Anami was her name, he remembered -- barred the way.
     "You have some nerve," she hissed.  "You bastard."
     "Hey, I-."
     Another girl, Akemi, joined her friend.  "Go away, you
jerk."
     He felt himself losing ground.  Like in any battle,
momentum was everything, and his had been cut away before
getting a single word in.  He had never been good at confrontations
with girls, especially when they didn't involve martial arts.  Ignoring
an instinctive urge to back away and leave, he ignored the two and
called past them.  "Nabiki -- Nabiki, c'mon, I just wanna talk!"
     "Why should she talk to an asshole like you?"
     "You get your thrills beating up on girls?"
     "Akane wasn't enough, you want to try her sister now,
too?"
     "You think we're going to let you?"
     The sudden and intense anger that roiled and surged up
within him must have been apparent in his face, for a flicker of fear
swept across the gathered girls and they took a hesitant step back. 
How dare they accuse me of that?  I do _not_ beat up on girls, he
thought, but at the same time, _do they really think they could stop
me_ flashed across his mind as he unconsciously assessed the
fighting ability of the young women before him.  That they would
suggest he would purposefully hurt Akane, could take pleasure in
harming Nabiki, fed his rage; but the realization that he considered -
- no matter how briefly -- actually fighting his way past his accusers
was like water on fire, dousing his emotions and leaving him feeling
momentarily stunned.
     A short, calming breath, and he tried again, a hint of
pleading creeping into his voice.  "Nabiki, I-."
     Anami obviously found enough courage to cut him off
again.  "You just don't. . . ," she started, but was in turn interrupted
by Nabiki.
     "It's okay, girls.  I've been meaning to talk to Saotome,
anyway.  Now's as good a time as any."
     With reluctant steps and evil eyes, Nabiki's friends backed
off.  The Tendo sister stepped forward and, without a word, took
Ranma by the arm and pulled him aside.  With enough distance to
ensure a modicum of privacy, she turned to confront him.
     "So.  What can I help you with, Saotome?"
     "Well.  That is . . . I -- I'd like my clothes back.  Nabiki. 
Ah, please?"
     "Is that all?"
     "Umm, yes?"
     "No, Ranma, that is not all.  Not by a long shot."
     Her voice was only slightly above a very hard, very
dangerous whisper.  He gulped.
     "Then, what-."
     "What else?  There's the little matter of my sister."
     "Akane."
     "Yes.  Akane.  There's a lot of rumors going around right
now, Saotome.  Really nasty stuff.  About Kiyoshi's party.  About
you.  You drinking.  You and my sister."
     "Nabiki. . ."
     "Did you hurt my sister?"
     "You don't. . ."
     "DID YOU HURT MY SISTER?"  Her voice, loud, angry,
sharp, seemed to echo across a schoolyard that was suddenly eerily
quiet.
     His gaze dropped to the ground, unable to meet hers any
longer.  "Yes," he whispered.
     "Did you hit my sister?"
     And now his head snapped back up, shocked at the very
idea.  "No!"
     There was a brief moment in which penetrating, appraising
hazel eyes locked with his.  She gave the slightest of nods, as if
coming to a decision.  Some of the tenseness seemed to ease out of
Nabiki.  "No, I suppose you didn't.  That's not like you.  You may
be a royal jerk, Ranma, but I don't think you'd hit my sister."
     He suppressed a sigh of relief.
     "But you _did_ hurt her, and you're going to pay for that." 
His hand twitched instinctively for his wallet, before he realized
that, what with wearing a skirt and everything, he didn't have it on
him.  The motion was not lost on Nabiki.  "Oh no, Saotome. 
You're not going to get off that easy.  You think you can bribe you
way out of something like this?"  Her eyes glinted.  "This isn't
some blouse you've stained or some cooking experiment you've
avoided or some meal you sneaked off to behind my sister's back:
this is family."
     She punctuated her statement with a sharp jab of the finger
to his chest.  Her now-raised voice was easily heard by the
numerous onlookers and eavesdroppers.  "Family, Saotome. 
Nobody -- not even the 'mighty' Ranma Saotome -- messes with a
Tendo and gets away with it!  Understand?  Did you really think
_money_ would excuse what you've done?"
     Ranma, visibly sweating, swallowed nervously.  He hated it
when Nabiki got like this.  The image of Nabiki-in-a-cat-suit flashed
before his eyes again, rearing back and paws ready to strike.  Did
claws glint in the schoolyard sunlight?  "No -- no!  Of course not!"
     "That's right, Ranma," she said, stepping forward.  "Not
money. . ."
     "Then   then what?"
     "I expect nothing less than . . ."
     He winced in anticipation.
     "A full calendar-style photo shoot!  No, make that two!  A
swimsuit edition and a lingerie edition!"
     It took Ranma's brain a moment to recuperate, and Nabiki
was there to help him recover from were he lay sprawled on the
ground.  He was only dimly aware of the laughs and jeers coming
from around them; his attention was entirely fixated on her.  What
was Nabiki up to?  She was waving and grinning at her friends and
schoolmates as she pulled him to his feet.
     But then her grip tightened, surprisingly painful on his arm,
and she addressed him in a whisper he knew was meant for his ears
only.  "I'm serious, Ranma: you're not off the hook.  When I'm
done sifting through the rumors and exaggerations, I'll know
exactly what went on.  And if I find that you _did_ hurt Akane, I'll
have you kicked out of the house so fucking fast your chestnut
fist'll seem a parlor trick in comparison."  She released her grip on
his arm.
     "Ta ta!"  She turned and walked away, speaking to him over
her shoulder, voice back to normal.  "And we'll set up an
appointment for your 'session' later."
     It was a testament, perhaps, to how seriously he wanted to
return to manhood that, momentarily pushing aside concerns over
what she had said, he called out after her.  "But, Nabiki -- what
about my clothes?"
     She glanced back and smirked.  "What, you think I'm going
to waste the rest of my lunch break on _you_?  Get real.  I heard
you had a good time as a girl at Kiyoshi's, so what's one more
afternoon?"
     Nabiki rejoined her circle of friends.  Ranma, after a few
moments, trudged off as well.  He had no idea where he was going,
he only knew that he was heading there alone.


     The guys were hanging out behind the school, leaning
against the tree and sprawled out in the dirt.
     "Yeah, Kiyoshi, that was your best yet!"
     "You think?"
     "_Definitely_, man."
     "Cool."
     "Didja invite all those people?"
     "Nah.  But I figured, you know, invite ten, twenty buddies,
they bring their girlfriends, they tell their friends, word spreads . . .
at peak, rough count, I'd say over a hundred were there at a time."
     "Wow."
     "Yeah.  But next time. . ."
     "There _will_ be a next time, right?"
     "Of course!  But next time, somebody's gonna be bouncer."
     "Bouncer?"
     "Damn straight!  I had busted chairs, weird shit floating in
the pool, a hole in the basement wall; smashed bottled
_everywhere_, and, like, even the fridge got raided!  And then, of
course, fights. . ."
     "You mean, like Ranma and Uehara?"
     "Or Ranma and Akane?"
     "Yeah.  And others."
     "Really?  Who?"
     "Well, Tanachi and Saeko pushed each other around a bit."
     "Was it over that exchange girl again?"
     "Yeah.  Somebody tangled in my sis's bedroom, too: had to
wash the blood outta the sheets and everything -- man, was she
_pissed_, even threatened to tell my parents."
     "Damn.  But, I mean, who'd you use?  With people like
Ranma and Uehara crashing your party, you'd hafta be nuts to be
bouncer."
     "Yeah, I guess."
     "Unless. . . hey, you could ask Ranma or something!"
     "You're kidding, right?"
     "Well. . ."
     "No way.  I mean, I used to think he was pretty okay, you
know?  A bit weird and all, what with turning into a chick and all
that -- but, well, still an okay guy.  And now?  Shit, the guy beats
up on his girlfriend!"
     "I dunno, man.  I thought she just dumped him."
     "Yeah, sure, because he came in all hammered and
everything, tried pawing at her.  But when she pushed him away he
got all violent and shit.  Threw a punch at her.  But Akane, she's a
martial artist too, right?  Blocked him and dumped him -- which
pissed him off even more -- then took off.  Ranma was, like, so
flipping out that he almost started beating up the other guys around
him!"
     "No way!"
     "Yeah, Kaori told me!  But if you don't believe me, go
check Kokichi's neck: he's got the strangle marks to prove it.  Or
go ask Sayuri, she was there, she'll tell ya what happened."
     "Wow.  I had -- I had no idea.  I always thought he was,
you know, all things considering, a pretty nice guy."
     "Yeah.  Me too.  But you know, those martial arts types,
you just can't trust 'em!"
     "I guess. . ."
     "Aw, shit.  There's the bell.  Let's go."
     The group scrambled to their feet and took off at a jogging
walk towards the school.  A minute later, with some rustling and a
flutter of leaves, Ranma Saotome jumped from his perch amidst the
branches of the tree.  He took a moment to smooth down his skirt
and brushed some dirt from his blouse, and then, once Kiyoshi and
his friends were out of sight, slowly followed their path back
towards Furinken.


     Hiroshi watched in silence from the rear of the class.  An ill
feeling brewed in his stomach.  Having overheard the rumors, the
exaggerations, the speculations, he knew that Ranma could not be
taking this well.  Thus he was surprised when, just before the
second bell rang, the pigtailed girl strode into the classroom and
took her seat.  She seemed calm, face expressionless and placid,
eyes dull.  Without a word she pulled out her textbook and
notepad, placed her hands softly on the desk, and, looking straight
ahead, quietly awaited the arrival of the teacher.
     Conversation died upon her arrival but quickly resumed. 
There were numerous verbal taunts and insults that must of reached
her ear, but not once did she acknowledge the speaker nor turn in
her seat.  No one approached her directly.
     "She's taking it pretty well, I think."
     "I dunno, Daisuke," answered Hiroshi.  "I've never seen her
like this.  Ranma's not the quiet type."
     "Aw, heck, she gets teased plenty."
     "Not like this, man."
     "True.  Hey, know what the latest rumor I've heard is? 
That she's actually buddies with Uehara.  No shit!  Supposedly she
set up the whole fight thing, to look good or something."
     "That's such bullshit!  This crap's getting out of hand. 
Know what I heard?  That after getting drunk she screwed a coupla
guys at the party.  It's . . . it's - it pisses me off!"
     Daisuke paled.  "Oh man."
     "Yeah."
     "She -- er, he'll be _really_ ticked off when he finds out
about that one."
     Then the teacher took his place at the front of the class and,
after a quick scurry to their respective desks and the ringing of the
second bell, the students were washed over by an incessant droning
that was intended to warm their youthful hearts to the wonders of
introductory algebra.  It failed, and a flurry of secretive note-
passing commenced.  Hiroshi had little doubt what the subject of
the numerous little pieces of paper was.
     The only two students who appeared to be paying attention,
he noted, was the broken couple.  That Akane was listening was
nothing unusual; Ranma, on the other hand, had never proven to be
the best of students.  Yet there she was, sitting primly and straight-
backed at her desk, diligently taking notes and listening to the
teacher with the utmost attention and focus.
     Could it be she wasn't aware of the stories going around
about her?  Or maybe Ranma had simply dismissed them.  Some of
the tales were, after all, so obviously overblown that only a
complete idiot would believe them: Kuno had, over the lunch-
break, sworn no less than seven oaths of vengeance, death, and
humiliation against 'that vile sorcerer' and 'abuser of women'
Ranma Saotome.
     Problem was, some of the rumors and insults being passed
around were far subtler and contained disturbing snippets of the
truth.  Minor manipulations of the fight between Ranma and
Uehara, twists of Ranma's words from around the fireplace that
night, slight embellishments of the incident with Akane: these near-
truths promised to wound the martial-artist far deeper than any
obvious lie.  By turning her self-confessed weaknesses against her -
- fears concerning menstruation, facets of her youth, hints of
unhappiness, aspects of that night -- these insults were proving far
uglier than any in the past.
     And it's my fault, Hiroshi thought.  I promised Ranma I
wouldn't tell anyone the stuff she told me, she trusted me, she
confided in me, and I betrayed her.  Without realizing it, he had
provided Sayuri with the ammunition she needed to strike back at
the man that, for reasons Hiroshi couldn't fathom, she seemed to
hate.  And so I sit back and let my girlfriend spread lies about my
friend, he told himself, and I sit back as the guys call her 'Red,' and
the girls call her a red-haired bitch, and the one night Ranma allows
herself to relax and open-up gets twisted into another example of
why she shouldn't.  I sit back and say nothing and don't come to
my friend's defense and don't even hang out with him over lunch.
     And though he tried to rationalize it -- it's partly Ranma's
fault, she isn't helping by coming to school as a girl, she _did_ act
like an ass getting drunk like that; Akane isn't helping either,
staying quiet and keeping to herself -- he knew, in the end, the real
reason why he didn't say anything: cowardice.  After all, he was
part of the group, he finally had a girlfriend -- a popular one at that!
-- and he could not bring himself to risk all that with a gesture that
would ultimately achieve nothing, anyway.
     Feeling sick at his own inability and unwillingness to come
to his friend's aid, Hiroshi sank deeper into his seat and awaited the
end of class.


     Afternoon gym: the period he had eagerly awaited all day. 
A chance to let off some steam, to work off some aggression.  To
prove he was the same Ranma as the week before, and the month
before that.  And, more importantly, the last class of a day that had,
even more than anticipated, proven to be very, very bad.
     But now, once again, even this simple pleasure was being
denied him.  Someone had broken into his locker and stolen his
gym clothes.  Realizing belatedly that he could have worn _those_
if he had turned back into a man this morning did nothing to
improve his mood.  This loss of another opportunity to return to
maleness overshadowed even his outrage at having the privacy of
his locker violated.  For the umpteenth time that afternoon he took
a deep, calming breath and clenched his fist so tight he felt nail dig
painfully into calloused palm.
     When he opened his eyes he felt another's gaze upon him;
and glancing to the side, saw Akane, reaching into her locker,
looking at him.  Their eyes locked, and for the indeterminable time
during which nothing existed but those large, soft, brown eyes, the
troubles of the day faded into inconsequentiality.  For a moment --
the briefest of moments -- she even seemed to look at him with
sadness, or regret, or sympathy; but then her gaze hardened, and
she looked away, and pulling her gym bag from her locker, left
without another word.
     He sighed and trudged, alone, towards the gym.
     His lack of proper clothing did not concern him overly
much.  After all, school dress regulations had meant little to him in
the past, and neither the skirt nor blouse would hinder his
athleticism.  If fighting with a pig chained to his wrist had taught
him anything, it was how to ignore the little distractions when it
was time to perform.
     Unfortunately, it seemed that, once again, this day would
not be going his way.
     The boys and girls quickly separated into their respective
groups, the former to play soccer and the latter, baseball.  Ranma
moved to join the other guys when a hand pulled him back.
     "Sorry, Saotome, but no-can-do."
     He gave the coach a quizzical glance.  "Huh?  Why not?"
     "Uniform."
     "Aw, c'mon Coach, I've never had to wear a uniform
before!"
     The teacher scowled at that.  "Just because you got away
with it in the past doesn't make it right, Saotome!  But that's not
the reason.  I just can't have you running around out there dressed
like that."
     "But it's no big deal, honest," protested Ranma.  "Just 'cus
I'm wearing a stupid skirt don't mean I can't play soccer!"
     "It's not that.  It's your shoes.  Mandatory policy: you have
to wear proper footwear out there.  School's worried you might
slip and hurt yourself."
     "But-."
     "Not 'buts,' Saotome.  I know you're pretty tough, but
rules are rules, and _this_ one the principle hasn't excluded you
from.  So no soccer."  The teacher looked around, them motioned
over towards the baseball diamond.  "Err, I dunno.  Go join the
girls, play some baseball."
     Ranma opened his mouth, closed it, and, glowering, turned
away and stalked towards the girl's end of the field.  Improper
footwear?  Hurt himself slipping on the grass?  What kind of
bullshit was this, anyway?  Well, whatever.  Although not as
enjoyable as a rousing game of soccer, maybe knocking a few balls
into the stratosphere would prove as satisfying.
     But as he approached the diamond, he knew that would
probably prove unlikely.  He steeled himself to continue as, upon
noticing his arrival, the girls stopped their game and turned what
seemed a collective glare his way.  The assistant coach came
forward.
     "Ah, sorry about this, Mrs. Tanaka," he said.  "Coach told
me to join the girls today.  'Cus of my uniform.  Guess it's okay for
baseball, tho'."
     Tanaka shrugged.  "Fine."  She gestured towards the bench. 
"You can join the red team.  You'll be up at bat after Yuka."
     Ranma sat next to Akane's friend.
     "I'm sorry, Ranma."  A faint whisper reached his ear, and to
his surprise he realized it was Yuka.  She didn't look at him but,
eyes downcast, spoke softly again.  "I really am."  And then she
stood up and stepped away.  After a moment Ranma realized that
all the girls in the dugout were moving back, effectively isolating
him.  They turned baleful eyes his way and said nothing.
     A moment later the assistant coach realized that the game
had ground to a halt and, looking up from her clipboard, walked
over to the diamond.  "What's going on, girls?  Why aren't you
playing?"
     "Because of _her_."  Sayuri stepped forward off of first
base and pointed an accusing finger at Ranma.  "We don't want to
play with _her_."
     After a quizzical glance Ranma's way, Mrs. Tanaka asked,
"What's wrong with Saotome?  Err, other than the obvious, I
guess."  The last was muttered but, to Ranma at least, quite
audible.
     "Well, she's a _guy_!"
     "But she looks like a girl right now. . ."
     "But we all _know_ she's really a guy -- and this is
supposed to be a girl's game.  I'm sorry, Mrs. Tanaka, but I just
don't feel _comfortable_, knowing a guy, even one wearing a skirt,
is playing with us."
     After a sigh, the assistant coach addressed the rest of the
girls.  "Does anyone else feel this way?"
     About half the hands immediately shot up, soon followed by
most of the rest.  A few girls seemed reluctant, some even angry,
but eventually nevertheless joined the rest of their peers; Yuka,
Ranma noted, was the last to raise her hand.  To his surprise,
however, Akane, standing somewhat back from the other girls and
bearing a neutral expression, kept her arms at her side.  She spared
a quick glance his way before staring out into left-field.
     Mrs. Tanaka approached the bench and kneeled next to the
sitting redhead.  "Listen," she said, softly.  "I don't know what's
going on here.  They're not being fair, but if I let you play, they
won't -- and it'll go up the ranks that I couldn't control my class,
and it'll be on my head.  I'm sorry, Ranma.  I guess -- I guess you'll
have to sit this one out.  Watch from the sidelines or something."
     There was a long moment of absolute silence and sudden
clarity.
     Without a word, without the slightest acknowledgment,
Ranma stood.  He spared a long look at the girls gathered on the
diamond, slowly scanning across them.  The brief surge of
contempt he felt for them, though quickly gone, must have been
apparent in his face: for some, unable to meet his gaze, looked
away.  He ended by matching stares with Sayuri.  Her lips curled
into a sneer of triumph; in response, he smiled, ever so slightly, and
watched the sudden uncertainty that flickered across her eyes. 
Then, walking forward -- he took no pleasure, nor shame, from the
hesitant steps back some of the girls took at his approach; much to
his own surprise, he felt curiously nothing about the situation -- he
picked up the dropped baseball bat and ball.  For a moment he
gazed off into the distance, into the clear unspotted sky.  He lightly
tossed up the ball.  For a moment it seemed suspended.  Then, with
as much strength as he could muster, with all the control and
fluidity and power that seventeen years of martial arts training had
wrought, he slammed the ball into the distance.  It disappeared with
a resounding crack.
     Lip curling into a thin one-sided smile, he nodded in
satisfaction, then softly lay the bat back on the ground.  A moment
later it lay in two pieces, and he pulled his fist from the splinters and
shards of wood.  Then he turned.  Walked away.  Enjoyed the
silence left in his wake and the certainty that a decision made
brought.
     He was dimly aware, as he strode towards the school in an
unhurried but unflagging pace, that the teachers were calling after
him; that the students behind had regained their voice; that some
were following him; that insults were being hurled his way: but he
cared not.  Entering the halls of Furinken, he made his way to his
locker.  Those who had followed stayed a respectful distance away
as he calmly entered his combination, opened the door, removed his
schoolbag, closed and re-locked the door.  Task done, he continued
his path through the school.
     The crowd of  followers grew bigger, as the rest of his class
caught up, as extra teachers were called in, as more students
noticed the procession.  Passing by a bathroom, Ranma halted.  He
contemplated the wall for a moment, then pounded his fist through
the plaster.  After a few seconds of reaching and rooting, he smiled. 
There was a screech of metal as he twisted, then a gout of water
shot forth.  His smile grew as, a moment later, a taller, more
muscular, dark-haired, _male_ Ranma resumed his march.
     And then, a minute later, he halted once more before
another locker.  The lock on it was of a quality and level of
sophistication obviously superior to any other around it.  Nabiki's. 
After a second's thought, he grabbed the door on either side and
easily yanked it off its hinges.  Tossing it aside with a loud clatter,
he quickly rummaged through her stuff before pulling out a clothing
bag.  With a sense of triumph he pulled out his clothes.
     His grin flagged slightly when he saw their condition. 
Someone -- Nabiki, he presumed -- had taken a pair of scissors to
his pants and shirt.  There were even a number of very unflattering
kanji slashed into the fabric.  His favorite red shirt and black pants
were quite unwearable.  With a shrug he tossed them aside.  So
what, he decided, if I'm a guy wearing a skirt and blouse.  Who
cares what these people think.  They mean nothing to me.  Nothing.
     Nothing.
     Ranma walked straight towards them, and they stepped
aside before his unwavering stride.  He did not know what he
would have done if somewhat had actually stood up to him; he
figured it would most likely have been quite violent and something
that, much later, he might regret.  But at this moment, with the sea
of blank, insignificant faces parting before him, with all the
emotions and passions and memories of the day faded into a dull
smothering haze enveloping him, he cared very little indeed.
     One face -- briefly glimpsed, quickly avoided, utterly
unreadable -- nearly penetrated that consumptive hollowness: but
even Akane's brown, brown eyes failed to reach him.
     And then, as he cleared the last of the students and faculty
that had followed him, he stopped.  He turned.  Again his lip curled
up into that enigmatic half-smirk.  He cleared his throat, enjoyed
the feeling of his newly-returned Adam's apple shifting within. 
Gave a slight mock-bow from the neck.
     "Ranma Saotome," he said.  "Sorry 'bout this."
     Turning his back on them all he left Furinken High School.


     *** Dilemma Ends  ***

Continued in Choices: Decision



***
	C&C greatly appreciated, be it public, private, MST, or just general
comments on how, you know, great of a guy I, like, really am.  <grin>
Groovy.
	Author notes follow.

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*
    The only artists I have ever known, who * E-mail at:
are personally delightful, are bad artists. * s669330@aix2.uottawa.ca
Good artists exist simply in what they make * Homepage/Fanfiction:
and consequently are perfectly uninteresting* http://aix2.uottawa.ca/~s669330
in what they are.  A great poet, a really   *	*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *
great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures.  But inferior poets are 
absolutely fascinating.  The worse their rhymes are, the more picturesque 
they look . . . He lives the poetry that he cannot write.  The others 
write the poetry that they dare not realize. 
	-Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*